


Porthos the Pirate

by chapstickaddict



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Hurt/Comfort, InseparablesFest2k14, M/M, Multi, NEWLY EDITED, Spur of the Moment Stalking, TW: Violence, Whipping, guardian angel!porthos, pirates!, porthos may be a little angry at the world, tw: discussions of slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-03-23
Packaged: 2018-03-04 19:16:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 38,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3084827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chapstickaddict/pseuds/chapstickaddict
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now with new updates!</p><p>Kink Meme Prompt:</p><p>Porthos becomes a pirate who preys on slavers. The other musketeers are sent to stop him….or maybe do other things. Porthos isn’t that good at not being paranoid.</p><p>  <i>Porthos forced his terror toward a purpose. He ripped chains off. He sunk ships. He stole everything. Porthos the Pirate became legendary. And in return, he was wanted by everyone with power and money from Prussia to the Antilles.</i></p><p>  <i>He had been chased by mercenaries and guardsmen, henchmen and thugs. But, he supposed as he watched the lovely man across the room wink at him with dark, smoldering eyes, he had never been chased by a Musketeer before. </i></p><p>TW: discussions of slavery<br/>TW: violence</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Mwahahahahaha! - i made my beta reader watch Musketeers, and now she has sunk down into the depths of pretty not-french boys and their drama. In return, she has kindly helped me polish this story into something I'm proud of. 
> 
> Thanks, readwing!

Like many born poor and desperate, Porthos was not sure how old he was. Looking back, he would sort his life into ‘before the ship’ and ‘after the ship’. ‘Before the ship’ could best be described as agonizing, terrifying, frozen, and bitter.

He remembered being chased by a mark who had not been as drunk as he appeared when Porthos clumsily picked his pocket. He ran as fast as his feet could carry him, knowing that if he slowed down it meant scars, pain, and death, if his mark was angry enough. He ran so fast and for so long he stopped caring about where he was, all that mattered was finding someplace safe.

He snuck aboard the ship for lack of any other alternative. It was a mighty ship with black sails and an eerily empty deck that sent chills down his spine. He would have retreated but for the loud cursing of his mark bounding down the docks. Porthos scurried for the hull.

He huddled amongst the extra rigging all night long. By dawn he realized the footsteps above him could no longer belong to his pursuer. By the time he had worked up the courage to explore, the ship had long ago pushed away from port and into the vast, turbulent sea.

He had never looked back. Piracy paid amazingly well.

A handful of years later, Porthos had kicked down a bolted door on a ship, and dozens upon dozens of eyes stared back at him. Some were startled; others terrified. Too many were simply resigned.

He had been a crewman then, with no authority to say anything; but he had rage enough to do everything.

No one argued with him when he overloaded their ship's barracks to house all those startled, terrified, resigned people until they reached a safe port. When the lifeless bodies of the captain and merchant were sent over the side of the deck, the crew huddled and murmured but no one spoke. Only the old quartermaster, Riley, dared to approach him after he sunk the horrid boat down to the depths of hell.

“Alright there, laddie?"

Porthos stared at him, struggling to fight through a sweeping fury colder than any storm the sea could bring. Riley sighed, clasping his shoulder in solidarity, and left him hiding from his problems amongst the rigging and extra sails again. Even after so long, it was the one place he felt safe.

Maybe if he ignored the world for a bit, it would stop disappointing him.

Pirates were surprisingly democratic—everything came down to a vote. Porthos expected to be voted out of the crew and marooned on some God-forsaken isle as punishment for his actions. Instead, they voted him into a captain’s hat and saddled him with his own ship.

Blinking down at his new hat in hand, he was at a loss as to what he would do with it. They were mistaken; he could not lead, could not take the lives of these men into his hands. All he knew how to do was fight.

“Ya won’t be no gold-grabbing pirate,” Riley told him, prying the hat from his hands as he fiddled with the trimming. It was a battered thing, well-loved by its previous owners and far too big for Porthos. Riley dropped it over his mess of tight curls anyway. “That ain’t what’s callin’ to you."

The hat slid down his brow and over his eyes, blacking out his vision.

“It’s too big,” he muttered. “Too much.” They both knew he was not talking about the hat.

“No, it ain’t. Ya just think it is.”

“...Can I still take the gold?"

“Lad,” Riley said, a crooked smile on his chapped lips. “Take it all. Ain’t nothin’ in this world safe from you.”

So Porthos forced his terror and doubt toward a purpose. He ripped chains off. He sunk ships. He stole everything. Porthos the Pirate became legendary, and in return he was wanted by everyone with power and money from Prussia to the Antilles.

Porthos loved it.

Over the years, he had been chased by all sorts of individuals and groups out for revenge or extra profit. Naval officers were the usual fare of choice, tracking him across the waves, sometimes aided by the occasional desperate bounty hunter or foolish merchant vessel.

As he watched the man across the room wink towards him with dark, smoldering eyes, he wondered that he had never been chased by a Musketeer. He was unable to look away, the smoky candles and roaring fireplace highlighted his cheeks with a honey golden hue. When the man tilted his face up, he revealed a beautiful expanse of skin from his chin down his throat where his wide shirt collar fluttered open. He smiled more than he spoke, the snips of his conversation in some dialect of Spanish or Portuguese. Listening carefully, Porthos could detect just a slight French accent in his vowels.

While France still traded in slaves for their pathetically small colonial provinces, the practice had been outlawed on continental French soil quite some time ago. Porthos, in his determination to sink every slaver ship he ran across, found he was more likely to draw ire in places like Portugal, England, or Morocco.

Perhaps he had sunk a ship backed by a French investor—it was plausible that a nobleman or banker could pull strings to have him hunted down. It wouldn't be the first time Porthos saw a rich man sending others to do their dirty work.

The Musketeer’s eyes strayed back to him, lingering a moment too long on his face before flickering back to the small crowd drawn around him. Porthos tried not to flatter himself. The beauty seemed to be seducing everyone in the room with his heated gaze, and received quite a few inviting gazes in return. That man would not want for company tonight.

To distract from the heady feeling of want floating over his warming skin, Porthos tried to solve the puzzle. He was too confident and assured to be a shadow man. In Porthos’ experience, they usually attempted to take up as little space possible, and only drew attention when absolutely required. In the time he spent watching the other carouse with the rowdy bar patrons, Porthos decided the other man was too disciplined and alert to be anything but a type of solider. No military officer or grunt would come into a place like this alone with no hope of reinforcement, and the Swiss Guard would not flaunt themselves so easily.

This one reeked of recklessness, uncaring of precautions or protections. Brave, if somewhat foolhardy, to wander into a thief's den on the wrong side of the Spanish boarder. He was isolated—for all he surrounded himself with people, there was a level of distance layering his actions. A Musketeer, if ever Porthos saw one.

He was an odd choice, Porthos thought as he watched the man accept a fresh tankard from a blushing barman. From what he knew, Porthos would have pegged the Musketeers as guardsmen in times of peace and infantry reinforcement when that peace inevitably disintegrated. Not the kind of occupation to have the skills of subtlety or ruthlessness required to make them manhunters. They were too preoccupied with honor and glory in the service of their king.

And what service the king employed these days, indeed. The man was heart-stoppingly handsome, there was no denying that. He had a roguishness that promised a good tumble. Porthos suspected he would not have noticed his would-be pursuer had his eyes not been drawn to that careless confidence.

He liked that in a man.

Porthos fought to keep his eyes to himself, but a peal of laughter from across the tavern drew his gaze. He watched the Musketeer stroke the back of a woman's hand before retreating, reaching up to play with a curl of his mustache. Porthos watched as he smiled easily, leaning closer to whisper in her ear with a face that spoke of desire without guilt or connivance.

He was like that all night. The man strutted around like a peacock, trading flirtatious words and caresses with everyone who crossed his path. The underbelly of society did not hold to the rules of morality terribly well, so Porthos was unsurprised to see he enjoyed his company with men and women alike. No moderation when it came to his affections, then.

Porthos was so enamored with his show that he didn't notice the shadow tucked into the far corner of the bar until the peacock-man sauntered that way. Another man hid in the flickering darkness, and once he noticed Porthos could see that he was watching everyone else in the room with sharp attention. His vivid blue eyes were half-closed but that hardly masked the smartness of them. He was not as put together as his companion, but he wore his dishevelment well. His skin was pale enough to make Porthos think he had never done an honest day's worth of work in his life, but the tight, controlled expression that touched the corners of his eyes and mouth made him wonder.

He was just as gorgeous as his companion in a subtler, less defined way, and he drew Porthos in as quickly as the pretty peacock’s strutting had. He also carried matching weaponry to the peacock. If one Musketeer was an interesting novelty, two were a downright dangerous crowd.

Moving slowly, so as to not draw attention to himself or slosh his drink in his hands, Porthos eased across the room. Nearer to the corner it was dark enough to keep him hidden but close enough to shamelessly eavesdrop.

“You look positively glum for all the fun you're watching me have,” the pretty peacock spoke in flawless French, which rolled off his tongue far better than Portuguese.

"Not too much fun, I should hope," the man in the shadows replied. "I'd hate to have to break up another orgy."

"That was once, and it was in Orleans. You would have been more surprised if I had behaved myself."

“I’m only irked that you made me retrieve you." The words were not spoken harshly, but with a dryness that belied that this was an old conversation between them. The peacock smiled smugly.

"Jealous, darling?"

"No more than you are."

Porthos tilted the brim of his hat low, shielding his face as he strained to listen. He could see his crewmen searching for him at the bar, but he was intrigued by his trackers and didn't call out to them. He was learning, he reasoned as he sipped from his tankard. It was logical to understand his enemy.

He was captivated by how comfortable they seemed in each other's presence, and perhaps jealous of them as well. The last people Porthos felt comfortable around had been Charon and Flea, and he had not seen either of them in years. Even in the Cour des Miracles there was little regard for pirates. No matter how noble his cause.

He jerked his thoughts away from that string of memories; the sting of their dismissal for his accomplishments still simmered below the surface. Contemplation would only bring a storm of heavy-heartedness down upon him.

Instead, he studied his Musketeers.

The peacock-man stayed near his shadow for their next round, and the one after that. They traded light barbs and drank more than prudent for men on a mission. The pretty one greatly enjoyed invading the other man's space. Sometimes he would lean in close to whisper in his companion's ear, same as he had the woman's before. He also tapped patterns against the strip of skin between the man's glove and sleeve. Once, he even stole the man's hat to try it on himself, throwing it atop his mussed hair with a flourish and a brackish grin. Only at that did the shadow turn faintly pink. He snapped at him, swiping the hat back, but never pushed away or moved to distance himself.

Porthos couldn't help but smile at their antics. He had finished most of his drink, only a few unappealing sips remained at the bottom, but it would hardly seem strange that he hadn't waved down another if he still had a bit left to go. He felt warm inside despite the lack of alcohol. He enjoyed witnessing these men's company, and was pleased that his trackers had not spotted him in return.

It would be harder to scare them off if they caught Porthos grinning like a loon.

Porthos straightened when the men rose to retire. They headed for the tavern staircase. Thankfully, he would not have to follow them outside to their lodgings and risk being spotted.

After they disappeared, Porthos waited for the better part of an hour. He waved down another tankard, finally. He could be patient. Hopefully, they would drop their guard as they settled in, and Porthos' job would be quick.

He would not have to kill them, he decided as he crept up the stairs. He justified his thinking as such: if Musketeers had been sent after him, he needed to do anything in his power to protect himself and his crew. Yet, they were likely only following the orders of a master whose own strings were held by someone Porthos had irritated. Therefore, their presence was a sign that he was frustrating the right sort of people in his piracy. Killing a set of pawns would do nothing to aid his efforts, but he could incapacitate them long enough to get his crew away.

The tavern hosted only a few rooms upstairs. In the first he found a snoring tradesman, probably bunking for the night before his caravan left at dawn. The second room was empty. As he neared the third, he hesitated. A light flickered under the seam of the door. Surely he had given them time enough to fall asleep. Perhaps one of them had foolishly left a candle burning while they rested?

Porthos crept closer, overly aware of each sheath and holster strapped to his body. He did not wish to have need of weapons. Threats and imagination could work wonders in place of true violence.

Pressing his ear to the door, he strained to hear a snore or grumble—any indication that they were sleeping.

The unmistakable sound of a quickly stifled gasp, followed by the telltale squeak of a bed, sent a shock of surprise down Porthos’s spine. He jerked back, and stared at the door for a moment in disbelief. There was no believing those noises to be anything other than what they were.

He fumbled his fingers over the rough wood of the wall until they found a small, hollowed out knot in the paneling. Kneeling to peer through it, Porthos spied a great deal of the room, including two small beds situated against the opposite walls.

One of which was empty.

Porthos bit his tongue with sharp teeth to keep back any sound as he watched the pair of bodies entwine around each other. Hands trailed shamelessly over partially undone clothing, revealing tantalizing strips of pale and golden skin. Kiss swollen lips parted to release soft moans. They moved together in a slow rocking rhythm, intimate and spellbinding.

Porthos was frozen on his knees. His mouth had gone dry; his heartbeat was loud in his ears. He could not have moved even if God and his angels had swooped down to smite him.

The pretty peacock was as restless in bed as he had been in the tap room. He barely allowed the his shadow a chance to breathe before capturing his mouth in a searing kiss, hands working fast to undo the buttons and laces holding him together. The other man writhed against the sheets, as impatiently determined to rid the peacock-man of his own layers. His hasty fingers dueled with the catches of his clothing.

“I’d have you know,” the peacock's voice was husky and genuine and so clear it was if he spoke into Porthos' own ear. “That I imagined you like this every time I touched someone downstairs. I wondered if they would gasp as you do when I catch you by surprise. If I could get them to scream as you did outside Nanes, in that field where none could hear us.”

His grin was wickedness incarnate as bent forward to bite at the other's lips.

The quieter man stopped, staring for a long moment with wide eyes. Then in a quick, efficient move, he hooked his leg around the pretty man's knee and flipped them around on the bed. Knees straddling the other man, he leaned down to brush his nose against the valley of a collarbone. The shadow pressed his lips there, seeming to savor the shallow, breathless laughter that shuddered through the pretty one.

“You are horrible,” the shadow muttered.

“And you’re eager.”

“I wasn’t the one strutting around like a prized cock all night. Rest assured, no one managed to miss you.”

“Sure you're not jealous, darling?” Porthos flushed in belated understanding of their earlier conversation.

“Undoubtedly. Did you happen to spot our man while you were catching the eye of anything that moved?"

Damn.

“No,” the peacock admitted, his mouth twisting unhappily. Porthos thought it unfair that the man looked as beautiful disappointed as he did elated. “Do you think Tréville's informant was wrong?"

The shadow ran his hands up the man’s stomach and chest, dragging up his shirt to reveal more olive skin and dark hair. Easing it over the other’s head, he bestowed a kiss upon his forehead.

“We can afford another night or two to find out.”

“And ignore everyone in Paris for another night or two,” that teasing smile returned as the peacock trailed his own hands up shadow’s leather-clad thighs.

“If it's a consequence of our mission, so be it.”

The pretty peacock cackled. Then he pulled the man down to capture his mouth in a deep kiss that spoke of desire and adoration. Porthos’s heart stilled at the tender sight, even as he cursed his own luck.

“Aramis,” the shadow man muttered as he broke away, hands curling into the bedsheets as he rocked in time with the other’s touch.

“It’s okay,” Aramis whispered, working to get his shirt over his head with easy grace. It joined their jackets on the floor, and his fingers tangled in the laces of the other’s trousers. The shadow made of noise of protest as he fought to rid himself of his own clothes, but Aramis soothed it away with a series of kisses along his shoulder and throat until he finally stilled long enough to get his trousers off.

“It’s okay, let it go. Let me see you."

“Oh god, Aramis-Aramis, please!”

“I didn’t think you knew how to beg, darling.” the pretty peacock—Aramis—taunted, though he looked close to coming apart himself. His free hand dragged through the other’s wild hair.

Porthos rested his forehead on the cold, firm woodwork to keep himself upright, and wondered what the hell he was doing here.

The still-nameless shadow eased down to cover Aramis with his own body. They whispered softly between kisses, but Porthos could not catch their words. The rest of their clothes soon joined the pile on floor. Their bodies pressed tightly together, too close for Porthos to easily identify one from the other, but he could hear the the crack of a half laugh, half sob. The shadow buried his face between Aramis’ neck and shoulder, his tone teasing but his grip firm. The peacock dug his nails across his back in retaliation, a vivid contrast against that pale skin. Undeniable evidence of their actions.

When they came, they came together; their worlds were no larger than each other.

Only after they settled into each other’s arms did Porthos realize he was harder than iron. His knees decried their aches, but his body throbbed in protest at the very thought of moving. His blood was fire in his veins, his skin burning hotter than sin. His heart raced. He watched as they curled and clung to one another as if they were the only ones left on earth. He could still not tell where one ended and another began. What was more—they looked at peace. Porthos thought it the first time either looked truly happy.

Porthos was an expert in discovered happiness. He had seen it on hundreds of faces, when freedom and possibility was opened to them.

It hit him in that instant what exactly he was doing, knelt down on dirt and grimed floorboards, watching an act he had no right to witness. He was a scoundrel to spy on two souls who willingly shared so much with each other. They believed themselves alone, not being spied upon by some pirate renegade. Chagrin overcoming excitement, he straightened his sore legs. He would leave them to their paradise, he decided, silently creeping away from his hiding place.

His own room seemed dark and cold as he turned in for the evening. He kicked off his boots and jacket, leaving on the rest of his clothes. It was an old habit, born from countless nights of being dragged from slumber in emergency—no one wanted to face an invading ship or a raging storm naked.

As he laid down, he did his best to ignore his own body. The rough sheets were freezing against him, heightening his awareness. His blood still roared, and his member throbbed. No matter how tightly he closed his eyes, he could not shake the vision of the two Musketeers holding each other close. Moving against each other. Sharing the same breath in a way Porthos did not believe was possible. He had read about that type of intimacy in romance books and poetry, but he had never expected to see it in practice. It was bewitching.

Groaning in shame and lust, Porthos broke down and took himself in hand. He did not last long. Sinking into bittersweet pleasure, he used his other hand to muffle his cries, their images dancing across his mind.

*

Porthos should have left before dawn broke in the sky. Musketeers had a fierce reputation and were not known for being merciful with their prisoners. Aramis had not identified him the evening before, but there were no guarantees that his luck would hold another night. If discovered, he was sure to be dragged back to Paris; and as much as he loved his homeland, he had no wish for it to be the last thing he saw before he dropped in the gallows.

But he did not run. It was as if he had chained himself, not with iron or rope but with a burning curiosity. 'Aramis' tolled in his mind, 'Aramis, Aramis,' he could still hear the shadow whispering, back arched and head tossed as Aramis trailed kisses down his throat. Porthos did not know the shadow’s name, and it felt wrong to have one but not the other. He had seen the man at his most vulnerable, surely he could learn his name before he left for sea, never to see either of them again.

He also needed to know the name of the person whose bidding had led them to Porthos, but he wouldn't lie to himself that it was his main concern.

So Porthos returned to the tap room the next morning and ordered breakfast. He knew if he properly thought this through, he would be concerned with the oncoming threat of a noose slowly tightening around his neck. Aramis may have been distracted last night, but Porthos was taking a risk in hoping they would not identify him a second night in a row.

Aramis appeared downstairs first, barely glancing at his surroundings. Porthos found himself concerned on the man's behalf, in regards to his ability to spot threats. The man was a Musketeer, was he not supposed to be observant? He barely looked coherent.

Aramis stumbled to the bar and ordered enough food for two, smiling at the morning barmaid with sleepy brazenness. She preened under his attention, going so far as to touch his unfastened collar in the guise of adjusting it. Aramis smiled flirtatiously at her before returning up the stairs, burdened down with a heavy tray. Porthos thought it was sweet that he had thought to take up enough for both of them.

Hours passed before the shadow appeared at the bottom of the stairs. He paid for another night of lodging and made arrangements for a pair of horses stabled in the tavern's barn. He did not speak anymore than he had to, and Porthos was gratified to see he paid more attention to his surroundings than Aramis had. Task completed, he too disappeared back to their room.

Porthos supposed it good for their cover to stay out of sight, but if he could not watch them, he could not learn.

He remained in the tavern for the day, alternating between staring at the staircase and trying to keep himself occupied. Patience was a virtue he tried to cultivate, but he did not always endure it well.

To pass the time, he thumbed through a worn book of poetry his crew had found during their last raid. They gave it to him in harmless teasing, since it was an open secret he had filled every chest in the captain's chambers with books and texts, on any subject he came across. He was not terribly familiar with poetry, but it kept him entertained for short intervals.

The book was written predominantly in Latin. After a challenging few hours, where Porthos tried to cobble together what he knew of the romantic languages to sound out the curly writing, Porthos was able to pick out sentences describing things like faith, love, and devotion.

By the noontime meal, his quartermaster Bennetto, who bore his weathered face sternly and had little patience for foolishness, found him nose-deep in his book and huffed in exasperation.

"The crew's gettin’ anxious,” he reprimanded by way of greeting. Porthos tried not to smile—it would only upset Bennetto.

"The crew's happy havin' another day of shore leave. You're gettin' anxious."

"Aye. As I've got reason to be. You ain't usually this keen to stay in one place."

"Ever think I could be mellowin' in my years?"

“You ain't got years, pup. All you got is sass and a sword."

"We're fine, Bennetto. You know I'd tell you if we weren't."

He would not mention the Musketeers. If they found him, it would be best for his crew to be as far away from him as possible. He could not predict what foolishness they would take into their head if they knew he was stalking the enemy. He had hot-heads aplenty among his crew, and Porthos was sure his old captain was laughing at the irony in his afterlife.

Bennetto reluctantly nodded and dropped the subject.

"Don't do something stupid, Captain. I may just leave ya to your fate if ya do.”

Porthos nodded. As quartermaster, Bennetto held in his care not only the supplies of the ship but also their conscious. He possessed the most authority on the ship after Porthos, and could belay any order Porthos gave if he disagreed with it. He would not hesitate to save The Huntsman and her crew if Porthos made too many wrong decisions.

Porthos treasured the man for it. He would keep the The Huntsman together. Whatever Porthos' lusts or distractions, he would doom only himself.

Bennetto detested sitting for longer than it took to scarf down a meal, so he soon took his leave to return to the ship. Porthos was left to return to his spying.

And waiting.

His Musketeers reappeared as the tavern filled up for the evening meal. They were presentable at a glance, but Porthos wondered if anyone else in the room could spot the little signs of untidiness. The shadow man’s jacket sat unevenly across his shoulders, as if mischievous fingers had tugged it askew. A bruise under Aramis’ jaw may have been a smudge or a bite mark.

Porthos hid his smile behind the binding of his book and shifted to keep them in his line of sight.

They did nothing unusual. To anyone else, they could have been a pair of workers coming to eat with the evening rush and share a few tankards by the fire, but Porthos saw the shadow searching the room every few minutes. He saw Aramis drawing people in around him like he had the night before. He kept himself tucked behind a pillar and tried to make himself as small as possible so as to not draw their attention.

This was stupid of him. He should stop risking himself and leave, but the bite of danger and desire combined with curiosity and a healthy dose of guilt to keep him where he was. Flipping another page in his book, he resigned himself to his decisions. No options anyways now, leaving was sure to draw suspicion to him.

He glanced back at his Musketeers, only for his heart to thud to a stop in his chest. Aramis' eyes were locked on him, glittering wildly in the heavy candlelight. Unlike yesterday, when his gaze had traveled over Porthos in an almost casual scrutiny, he was now ignoring everyone else in the room in favor of Porthos. As he saw he had Porthos' attention, he winked, and his smile grew as he leaned forward. His darkened eyes spoke volumes in passion and adoration. Porthos had the distinct feeling he was being undressed one piece of clothing at a time. Aramis had no shame.

A blush started without Porthos' permission. He always ran hotter than most, but now he could feel waves of heat radiating off him, created by a confusing mix of embarrassment and arousal. He did not understand why but Aramis’ gaze had the ability to send him tumbling into irrationality. His lust was nothing Porthos had not seen before on dozens of would-be romantic swindlers, but never directed at him. Never shown so openly.

The shadow man glanced at Aramis, noticed his distraction, and followed his eyes to Porthos. Bright blue eyes, framed by shadow and scruff, peered at him with a mixture of curiosity, wariness, and expectation. The breath fled from his lungs instantly.

This was it, he thought. He tried to make his body react to the situation, reach for his weapons, do anything to protect himself, but he was suspended in his seat. No matter how many distant alarms clanged out in warning, all Porthos could do was stare back in return, and hope he did not appear too much an idiot.

Aramis leaned close to the shadow's ear to whisper softly, without taking his eyes off Porthos. His smile was once again wicked. Porthos thought again about the noose, which was sure to be around his neck by morning.

Desire overrode fear and kept him tied to his chair.

Then the tavern door was thrown open, the wood cracking harshly against the wall where it collided. Porthos jerked out of his revere, and he could not hold back a groan at the familiar face.

Gravois was a smuggler and a scoundrel. Porthos held neither against the man-- he himself dabbled in smuggling when the need arose. But Gravois brought out his temper. Not many people could instantly set his teeth on edge, but Gravois managed it with surprising ease. Porthos supposed it was because the crook thought little for the people he trampled on in the course of his work, something Porthos could never forgive.

Porthos bit his tongue to keep his annoyance at bay when the scoundrel's eyes landed on him, clear in their intent. He must have searched out The Huntsman at the docks before he came to the tavern. Porthos’ ship was mundane and unassuming in the eyes of guards and inspectors, but to someone who knew the signs of a pirate ship she was a shining beacon on where to find him.

He rubbed his knuckles against his forehead. Damn his luck.

“I got cargo for you to move,” Gravois told him as he strode to the table, claiming the seat across from him. Porthos took his sweet time marking his page with a small scrap, before finally closing his book and tucking it away. It was poetry, but it did not deserve to pay the price for his temper.

“Ain’t interested,” he replied. He set his hands open on the table, loose but prepared. Anything Gravois had his hand in would only spell trouble for Porthos, and while he wasn't looking to piss him off, refusing the man was his best option.

“I ain’t askin’ if you're interested, you gotta move it,” Gravois hissed. He seemed tense. Looking closely, Porthos could see signs of stress and dismay written across his face. He was sweating even though the tavern was starting to chill in the autumn evening. He looked like a dog ready to gnaw off his own leg to escape a trap. Porthos knew the signs of a man in over his own head, and they were all staring him in the face of a large and wronged lowlife. He wanted nothing to do with it.

“Told you, ain’t interested,” Porthos repeated, setting his shoulders straighter. People tended to stop arguing with him when they realized just how much space he could take up.

Gravois opened his mouth, amazingly ready to try anyway, when a rustle of cloth brushed by and Aramis slid onto the bench beside him, shining and bright compared to Gravois’ pallid color.

Porthos’ breath caught when the beautiful man sent him another smile, warning lurking underneath. Porthos obediently stayed silent, and Aramis' eyes turned to Gravois.

“You look like you could use a drink,” he said. His Portuguese had not improved from the night before, but his voice sounded like honey no matter the words and it left Porthos craving more.

Despite that, he had to question Aramis’ taste. Gravois? Porthos was no great beauty, but he was at least worth more attention than an unwashed, jaundiced smuggler.

“Eh? Bugger off, I ain’t looking for company,” Gravois grumbled, too distracted by his woes to appreciate the offer. Aramis’ eyes hardened in a way that Porthos hadn't seen yet, and his smile turned sharp.

“Nor am I, sadly. You wouldn't know the way to Paris, would you?” He asked, this time in French. Gravois’ eyes widened in fear and alarm, and Porthos abruptly realized that he was not the pirate these Musketeers were chasing.

Gravois tried to run. Throwing himself away from the table, he got perhaps three steps away before the shadow, lurking unseen beyond them, struck. Landing a swift, solid blow to the man’s jaw, he put Gravois into the ground without further fuss. It happened so quickly that Porthos was still staring at the blank spot where Gravois had been sitting before he realized the man was captured.

Aramis did not stop smiling, only now it was directed to Porthos. The dangerous light was gone from his face, leaving only a soft, welcoming expression. He opened his mouth to say something, but a grunt at their feet drew him away.

“Any time you'd like to help, Aramis,” the man hissed as he struggled to lift Gravois’ unconscious body.

The chatter in the tavern did not stop, but it took on a sudden muted quality. While not planted solidly in outlaw territory, the tavern was filled with more people who broke the law than those who lived under it. Porthos could already see trouble brewing around the edges of the room. Surely no one would be stupid enough to attack men belonging to the King of France...

Aramis, seemingly fearless in the face of havoc, turned from Porthos to the room at large.

“We've no quarrel with any of you,” he told them, his voice calm and soothing. His Spanish was passable, and he was clearly enjoying himself. “Simply a bone to pick with a man who thought to kill people for their hard earned coin rather than obtain it himself. The crown of France takes exception to that."

He turned back to Porthos with a dazzling smile, which Porthos was quickly realizing could stop his heart every time.

“Stop flirting,” the shadow ordered before Aramis could speak.

“A little levity never hurt, Athos.”

Athos. Porthos supposed sticking around paid off after all. He repeated the name to himself, etching it into memories from the previous night that still felt sharp and raw and delicious.

“Aramis,” Athos growled. It was a nice growl, Porthos thought as he tried to regain his senses. He could not say he was particularly successful at it.

“Coming, coming,” Aramis sighed theatrically. “Goodbye, lovely.”

It took Porthos a moment to realize Aramis had meant that last part for him.

He was not blushing. Pirates do not blush, even when charming, outrageous Musketeers flirt with them.

With that, Aramis helped Athos toss Gravois’ unconscious body over his shoulder, picked up the man’s fallen hat, and disappeared out the door.

Perhaps Musketeers were manhunters after all, Porthos thought faintly as noise resumed around him. Fighting down the rush of blood and warm skin he refused to call a blush, he could not help but wonder how long it would be until he saw them on his own tail.

*

Porthos had thought it would end there. The last glimpse he had of Athos and Aramis was them loading an unconscious Gravois onto their horse. After that, he expected to be left with nothing but passionate memories and the strange mix of fear, intrigue, and lust dancing on his tongue. It should not have gone any further than that.

It appeared God had other plans for them.

*

Pirates were traditionally bound to the sea, but slavery came from every edge of the map. Early in his decision to destroy as many slavers as he could find, Porthos realized there was only so much he would be able to do on water. Who to find, what routes they took, what ships they favored—all this information came from ports and the connections Porthos made along his travels. He found bankers, docks men, smithies, anyone a slaver would have reason to talk to, and he paid well for their information.

He sailed into the port of Calais and went looking for Chayne, an iron smith who was often commissioned to create shackles and manacles. He could be persuaded to pass his patron's information on to Porthos for the right price.

Instead of a disgruntled smithy, Porthos found a headache and a half.

“What do you mean, bandits?”

The apprentice, a young lad with big ears and a sheepish look in his eye, shrugged helplessly.

“They—they grabbed him on his way to-to-to Flanders for materials.”

“Why?” he demanded, already preparing to call it quits with this nonsense. Bandits don’t grab people. They grabbed money and supplies, and ran. They were usually too worried about who was chasing them to be concerned about who they found.

“I—I don’t…” the apprentice trailed off, anxious at his questions. The boy looked so scared and miserable that pushing would only cause him to break down further. Porthos sighed and placed a sou on the kid’s anvil for his information. Looks like he was going bandit hunting. Chayne had been a rough, old cuss, but he'd been decent to him. Porthos wouldn't leave the man in the clutches of rogues.

He left The Huntsman in the hands of Bennetto, packed a bag, and left Calais without delay. Bandits were a fearful lot, and they were fast.

He wished he could say he searched for days. He wished he had needed to rip the forest between Calais and Flanders apart to find even a hint of a trace of Chayne. Instead, Porthos found his body within a few hours of searching. The bandits had not tried hard to hide their handiwork. Sliding down into the ditch where they dumped him, Porthos felt his anger rising.

Slowly, he peeled the bloody clothes from the body. Bruises and cuts along with other signs of torture littered across Chayne's skin. His throat had been slit open nearly ear to ear, and his wide eyes stared out at Porthos in dead terror. His body was too stiff for Porthos to properly close his eyelids, so he grabbed a blanket from his pack and covered the man while he dug. He did not know the proper prayers to help a soul pass on, so he could only hope committing him to the earth would be enough to ease his rest. No one deserved to be left to rot in the sun off a forgotten road.

With Chayne buried and vengeance simmering in him, Porthos went hunting. Chayne may not have been the best of men, but he had never turned Porthos away, had helped when Porthos asked of him. His information had helped Porthos sink four slaver ships in the last two years alone. He did not think he could face the man’s wife without being able to tell her that the men who killed her husband had suffered as well.

The bandits were not hard to find; they left a trail behind them that a blind man could follow. Porthos contented himself that their sloppy trail meant more energy for keeping pace. Since they were making no effort to hide themselves, the bandits were moving fast. Three days of relentless tracking later, Porthos had only managed to hunt down cold campsites and overgrown trails.

He was scouting a well-used route the next morning when the sound of hoofs on dirt announced travelers further down the road. Porthos sprinted off the road, quickly hiding in the dense, lush greenery. He crouched low, eyes on the road. He drew a knife as an afterthought.

Coherent thought fluttered away as a single horse, bearing two achingly familiar riders, came into view.

Athos clutched the reins in front, pistol in hand and sagging in troubled exhaustion. Porthos could not see Aramis' face, but his head clumsily rested against Athos’ shoulder and his arms wrapped tightly around his waist. Porthos could see, even from his distance, the weariness and pain radiating off the men.

Their horse was on its last legs, moving along with barely a trudge left to its name. He could see a few wounds in the horse’s hide, and wondered just how far it could take them. Not to Calais for sure. Porthos trailed after them in the brush, worry rising within. They were sitting ducks for bandits.

“We need to get off the road,” he heard Athos mutter after they had moved an impressive distance further down the road. Porthos could not agree more. On that horse, in the middle of the road? They were open and vulnerable. He was surprised they had not been found by now.

Athos looked around, his mouth twisted in an unhappy frown. Porthos knew there was a decently hidden glen tucked behind a tangle of stone, trees, and dirt just off to their left, but he could not think of a way to get them there without revealing himself. All he could do was hold his breath as Athos slowly extracted himself from Aramis’ grip and dismounted. Aramis stayed slumped in the saddle. Porthos bit back a worried groan when he saw a thick, bloody bandage around his chest under his jacket rather than a shirt. They were being tailed by bandits and Aramis was injured. Perfect.

It was a good thing Porthos found them. They would have gotten themselves killed on their own. Porthos had his work cut out for him as it was.

Thankfully, Athos found the glen on his own, and carefully led the horse and Aramis to it with only a minimum of cursing. Once he helped Aramis off the beast’s back, Porthos could see the Musketeer was worse off than originally thought. His face was ashen and twisted in pain, and he could not stand without assistance from Athos. Porthos felt his fury, coldly rational at the discovery of Chayne’s body, spark into a more dangerous flare.

“We have to keep moving—,"

“We are more of a target on the road than off it in your condition,” Athos replied, his voice steady. “There’s no point rushing to Calais if you are dead by the time we arrive."

“I’m not dying. You did a splendid job stitching me up.” Aramis’ cocky grin paled in comparison to the one he had worn at the tavern so many nights ago.

“Only because I made you talk me through it. You need rest."

“With escaped convicts biting at our heels? I think not, dearest.”

“We can’t outrun them,” Athos repeated. “Our best strategy is to lay low.” Even as he said it, Porthos could see the reluctance on his face. They did not have the ability to escape, and they could not hope to survive undetected for longer than a day or two.

They could not die; Porthos refused to allow it. The very thought made his heart contract and his stomach churn nauseatingly.

“We don't have enough rations to wait them out,” Aramis muttered, resting his head against the trunk of the tree he was propped against.

Porthos felt his alarm rise. He mentally checked over his own rations, tucked carefully away in his pack. If he was careful, he was fairly sure he could keep them fed for at least the next week. Athos had to sleep eventually, and Porthos could easily slip some of his supplies in with theirs when he did.

“Won’t be the first time we’ve hunted to survive,” Athos replied as he cleared away debris from their new campsite.

Porthos strongly disapproved of Athos' plan. Hunting meant abandoning a secured area and Aramis, who needed his protection and assistance. Hunting meant opportunities for bandits to overwhelm Athos and hurt him. Hunting meant Porthos would need to decide between the two of them who to watch over.

Hunting was not an appealing idea.

They were not at such dire of straights yet. Athos produced cold rations for them to eat while he redressed Aramis’s reddened bandages. From his hiding spot in the tiny, cave-like hollow of sweeping stone that blocked the glen from the road, Porthos held his breath and kept his eyes sharp while they talked.

When danger arrived, he saw it coming much sooner than Athos or Aramis.

He shimmied down from his cave slowly; Athos was on pins and needles already with Aramis’ wounds, and Porthos guessed he would be sensitive to any little disturbance. He would see that they both remained calm and further unharmed if he could.

The bandit, a single, solitary scout, was rapidly closing in on their little glen. Porthos met him halfway, taking his feet out from under him with a rough tackle. Grabbing the man, he pushed the struggling body behind a tree just as Athos sprung up, sword in hand.

Porthos was bigger and stronger than the bandit, and subduing him took only the matter of squeezing until he felt bones grinding. He stuffed his hand in the bandit’s mouth, muffling it until Athos retreated. But his Musketeer’s bright blue eyes were still alert, and Porthos needed to move before they were found.

Reaching down, he grasped the bandit’s wrist and twisted sharply. Bone snapped and with a stifled yell the bandit dropped the knife he held. Porthos released him.

The bandit did not look back, running as fast as he could back the way he came. Bandits were not fighters at heart. Porthos gave him a beat and started to follow as quickly as he dared, casting his eye behind him as he went.

“Think it was just a fox?"

“We’re never that lucky, Aramis.”

It was the last Porthos heard from his Musketeers as he followed the bandit back to his nest. The scout was not smart enough to mislead him after the scare Porthos had inflicted, and if he wanted to get Aramis and Athos out of this mess alive, he needed to take a more direct approach.

Porthos paid strict attention to his surroundings as he stalked the fleeing bandit, so that he would know his way back to camp. He kept distance between him and the scoundrel, until the recognizable flicker of firelight appeared through the trees.

Found them.

He lengthened his strides, closed in on the first wounded bandit, and killed the man with a silent knife to the back before he could alert his comrades.

Fair play and honor were for people who could afford them. Piracy had taught him that boldness was a virtue. He could not hope to survive the seas and the slavers otherwise. This small group of bloody-minded bandits stood no chance against him.

Circling their camp like a hungry lion, Porthos stalked their perimeter until nightfall. He counted near twenty in all. Outnumbered, his options were severely limited, but he had the advantage of surprise, and he would make it count.

All men needed sleep, and overconfident men did not think to protect themselves while so defenseless. They placed only one guard to keep lookout, presuming nothing in their surroundings to be more formidable than they were.

Porthos grabbed the scout just as the man began to doze at his post. If any of Porthos' crew fell asleep on duty, it would be a cut from their take of the loot and a stern conversation about their place on board The Huntsman. For a bandit who prayed the innocent and hurt those who could not defend themselves, Porthos used blunter methods of punishment.

Studying the lifeless body provided Porthos with more clues. Both he and the earlier bandit dressed in rough, plain garb; he sported a set of manacles around his wrists, though the chains had been hammered off. He flipped back the man's shirt collar and found a half-healed fleur-de-liser stamped on his shoulder. Prison escapees. They must have run, chains and all. Porthos guessed they had stalked Chayne, upon discovering his trade, and found him alone on the road. Once he had removed their chains, he had been of no further use to them.

Porthos let rage overtake his guilt as he slit the next one’s throat, keeping the thrashing man pinned with his superior weight so he would not wake his comrades. He worked his way through the camp in singles and pairs, being sure to stay as silent as possible.

A part of him was disgusted at himself for butchering men in their sleep when they could do nothing to prevent their fates, but the image of Chayne, his face cast in fear and resignation even in death, flashed through his mind, drowning out his guilt. And Aramis, struggling to dismount his horse and trying desperately to hide his pain. Athos’ drawn face, tight with concern and stress as he tended to Aramis' still bleeding wounds.

Slavers were not the only devils in the world who hurt people.

By morning come, Porthos was aching and drained. His skin and clothes were sticky with blood, but his job was done.

He rid himself of the worst of the evidence in a nearby river, scrubbing his skin raw in impatience. The bandits were taken care of, but Aramis was still in need of attention. Dallying longer could mean consequences that Porthos would not dwell on.

He picketed two of the bandit’s horses, strong and well-rested, just off the glen that hid the Musketeers. Their saddlebags were loaded with enough food and gear to see Athos and Aramis safely back to Calais. Possibly even to Paris. Porthos had not been stingy.

Only after he stretched out, back on the cold ground of his little cave, did he allow his exhaustion to catch up with him. He had slept lightly and fitfully while he hunted. After the events of the night, he was fighting against a heavy drowsiness in his limbs and a fogginess of the mind.

Nonetheless he forced himself awake so he could watch Athos warily circling the horses he had left. He approved of Athos' paranoia; he was cautious where Aramis was headstrong.

“Maybe not a fox after all,” Aramis jested as he leaned against a nearby tree. “Maybe a guardian angel, instead."

“I doubt God loves us that much,” Athos replied as he poked at the horse’s tack.

“Speak for yourself, I’m a complete gem in His eyes."

Porthos did not fight the smile that overtook him. It felt good to smile, after questioning his actions the night before. He was glad for Aramis, who could keep Athos and Porthos alike from falling too far into the seriousness that burdened him.

The horses would take them further, faster than he could follow on foot, even with Aramis’s injuries. Porthos watched them go with half-lidded eyes as he nodded off to sleep. All he could do now was trust they would get to Calais safely.

*


	2. Chapter 2

Winter arrived fast and strong, turning the seas harsh and the wind icy. Travel was miserable, and even slavers were slow to move when the snow fell. After a chaotic summer and a complicated autumn, his crew were grateful for a break.

Porthos wished he could enjoy the lull in activity like they did, but when he closed his eyes for longer than a breath, flashes of vivid blue eyes or thick black curls appeared before him. When he listened to the wind through the sails, he remembered warm, affectionate French from a voice made for laughing and dry witty comments in a deadpan tone. He could not sleep, with those Musketeers haunting his dreams. He was frustrated, unnerved, and still confused by his constant awareness of them, long after he had last seen them.

He was used to being driven by anger, determination, and a healthy dose of loneliness, but these men were an itch under his skin, and no amount of work or distraction countered their effect. He tried taking others to bed at almost every port they stopped in- determined women with clever fingers, and brash men with scars and stories aplenty. However, he could not shake Athos and Aramis far from his thoughts for long, and within hours they returned to haunt him.

So he shoved aside his bedmates and concentrated on tracking down as many slaver ships as possible. He would have worked himself into the ground had winter not forced his hands, driving him to reluctantly settle down at port. It did nothing to stop the itch.

December passed slowly until Christmas hung over their heads like a beacon in the night. Despite himself, Porthos found himself looking forward to it. He was a true Parisian at heart, and the only acceptable way to receive a midnight Christmas Eve Mass was at the heart of Cathèdrale Notre Dame de Paris. A handful of his men grumbled at the risky entry into Paris during the cold winter, but Porthos ignored them with cavalier cheerfulness. He did not allow himself many indulgences, but this one would be pried from his cold, dead hands on Judgement Day.

Notre Dame was crammed full of people, from the nobility seated on cushion seats in the front pews, to the common people standing in the aisles. Porthos claimed a tight spot against a marble pillar, smiling at a girl who crawled up the pillar to rest on a precarious ledge above everyone’s head. The bishop was in fine form this eve, weaving an enchanting sermon about forgiveness, charity, and devotion. Closing his eyes, Porthos let the atmosphere wash over him, calming him for the first time in months. He did not often find peace, but this place could find it for him. The ringing words and haunting psalms; the heat of thousands pressed together in silence to receive blessings. An otherworldly feeling drifted over Porthos, and he tried to enjoy it while he could.

He was steady yet light-headed as communion ended. Many began to filter out, eagerly awaiting the traditional offerings made by the nobility to the poor after mass. Porthos lingered behind, head resting against his pillar, wanting to keep hold of the serene drift for just a little while longer.

Finally, he worked up the strength to move. Taking a taper, Porthos found a small nave and lit a small, white candle. He whispered a quick prayer for those in his crew he had lost, and for the poor souls on slaver ships he had not been quick or strong enough to save. He asked for a fruitful year, and for the safety of he and his own, and for God’s forgiveness of his actions. He asked for strength against his vices and help to stay his course, because it became a little harder each year. For every slaver ship he sank, five more arrived from the woodwork, five more times the people he could not save. He did not want to lose faith, but he needed help remembering he could not be infallible.

His knees ached by the time he finished, and he pressed his hands hard to his face to bring himself out of the veil he had dropped himself into. Turning back to the main cathedral, he nearly yelped aloud in surprise when his eyes strayed over the back pews.

Aramis looked healthier than when they had last crossed paths. Porthos was cheered by that fact, even as he threw himself behind a pillar. His stunned amazement had jerked him from his peace, and his heart beat rapidly as he peeked around the corner to spot Aramis again.

Looking closely, Porthos was not as thrilled with what he saw. Aramis sat slumped in his pew, hat in hand and his eyes pressed closed while his mouth moved in silent prayer. He was alone, something Porthos was only ready to admit after he searched each and every nook and cranny of the church he could from his view. Athos could live in shadows with how well he blended, but Porthos was sure he had not this time.

No, Aramis was well and truly alone. He looked exhausted, and Porthos cringed at the aged, subdued lines of his face. He could not know what bothered this peacock-man, but it weighed heavily on him. Porthos wanted nothing more than to have the right to reach out and soothe that worry away. How much would he need to ease the scrunched lines that marred his forehead and mouth, before Aramis smiled again?

Would he laugh like he did in Porthos’s dreams?

As Aramis rose to his feet, turning to leave the church, Porthos followed at a distance. It seemed wrong not to.

He was unfamiliar with the building Aramis led them to, but he if he had to hazard a guess, it was the Musketeer’s garrison. Its single, narrow entrance was positioned to withstand a direct attack, and the high walls discouraged curious eyes. Currently, its doors stood wide open and a great ruckus could be heard from within. Cautiously peering inside, Porthos supposed their captain was hosting the reveillon. Food was spread everywhere, and more than enough bodies to eat it. Each man sported an engraved shoulder guard, and their blue cloaks were strung across every available surface.

Porthos was beginning to think he had suicidal instincts. Instead of running as fast as he could in the other direction, he crept inside the gate and found a small space to hide himself under a pile of barrels, hay, and ropes. It was oddly reminiscent of the spot he had retreated to on his first ship, and it invoked the same feeling of safety in him. From here he had a good vantage of the courtyard, and no one in the garrison seemed keen on surveillance when there was merriment to be had.

Porthos had learned to scan the corners and the dark spots of the room. Now that he knew what to look for, it took little effort to find Athos tucked back into yet another corner, cradling a green-tinted bottle to his chest. Aramis spotted him as well, and headed directly to the subdued man.

Athos did not look pleased to see him. Porthos pressed his lips together in concern as Athos shied away from Aramis, disoriented and annoyed at the other’s presence. Aramis in turn looked more worn and tired than he had in the cathedral.

Porthos rubbed his hand over his mouth as he thought. People were people, and could not be predicted, but he found it unsettling that they would be so at odds with each other. Had there been a falling out between them?

He was not nearly close enough to hear the heated words Aramis and Athos traded, but he could still see the argument brewing between them. Athos was surrounded by empty bottles besides the one in his hand, and Porthos sincerely hoped he had not finished all of them on his own. Disappointment and hurt scrolled across Aramis’ face, but Athos could not see it when his eyes refused to rise further than the table. Similarly, Aramis could not see the pain and guilt mirrored on Athos’ face that Porthos could, sitting lower and safely away.

Aramis left Athos to his gloom soon after, both of them miserable at the loss of the other. Aramis disappeared into the crowd easily. Porthos watched him as far as he could from the confines of his hiding spot until it became an impossible task through the throng of bodies.

Athos pushed to his feet sometime later, unsteady and swaying with each step. Porthos paled as he watched in stunned disbelief. He was stumbling towards the entranceway and his hiding spot. Surely he was not considering wandering the streets of Paris when he was this drunk and distracted and moody. He would not make it home in one piece, even on Christmas Eve.

Porthos checked his surroundings and scampered out of his hiding spot. There was no way he would allow Athos to stumble home alone. He feared even imagining what could happen to his shadow out on his own in this state.

Athos was not the first drunken mark Porthos had followed, but it was the first time Porthos’ instincts ran towards protection rather than corruption. He paused with each stumble and pause Athos took, his heart twisting as he watched Athos struggle to move his feet in his sluggishness.

He only meant to follow Athos home, to make sure he got there safely. Just that. But when Athos stumbled again, his equilibrium vanishing as he overbalanced and his legs giving out, Porthos moved before the man could hit the ground. In one smooth move, he reached out, catching Athos around his waist and slinging him over his shoulder before the man got a good look at his face.

The heavy stench of alcohol struck Porthos across the face. Far too gone to be walking alone indeed.

Athos gave a weak gasp of surprise as his world shifted. He twisted in Porthos' tight grip, hands pushing against his back as he tried to push himself up, but his coordination was too dulled with drink and he soon slumped back into Porthos with a tired groan.

“If you’re going to kill me, I would only ask that you make it quick and leave me my pride."

“I ain’t gonna kill you,” Porthos muttered, distractedly piecing together which street they were on. Apparently, Athos could match Aramis toe-to-toe in the over-dramatics when the mood struck him.

Athos grunted in protest, but his fight with Aramis and his inebriation had sapped away his energy. He hung limp in Porthos’s grasp.

"Then what do you want?" Porthos had to admit, the man knew how to mask just how far gone into the bottle he was when he spoke. There was only the slightest hesitation to his words, and a hint of a slur that could be overlooked, if one had less experience with crafty drunkards.

“I mean t' get you home. Which way?” Porthos finally asked, conceding that he did not know where to go from here. He tried to keep his voice low and steady. Hopefully, Athos would not be coherent enough to question him.

His shadow whimpered pitifully and nudged his arm to the left.

They repeated this pattern of communication a few more times before they arrived at a rundown little building, and Porthos was impressed with the drunk's upside down performance. As he entered the hallway, he leaned over and put Athos back on his feet, then planted his hand on the man's chest to keep him upright against the wall. Athos’ eyes were already half-mast, and he was struggling to track Porthos' movements with his usual sharpness. As heart-breaking as it was to see him this way, Porthos was a little less concerned about Athos remembering him clearly under the circumstances.

A quick search through Athos' pockets produced a key, and Porthos stumbled inside over a scattering of empty wine bottles across the floor. Porthos' concern flared anew, and he didn't think much of patting Athos’ hair away from his face in sympathy. He gently tugged him inside and shut the door. No one drank like this without trying to escape something. Porthos had seen it before; people tried to quiet the voices that haunted them, withdrawing from memories that hurt worse than knives.

Athos stared at him, blinking rapidly in confusion. His wild, dark hair was soft under Porthos' fingers, and stuck out in odd directions.

“You’re not Aramis," Athos finally decided, sounding more confused than accusatory.

“No,” Porthos agreed.

Athos groaned and buried his face in his hands. Porthos grasped him by the shoulders and shifted him to sit on the bed, where he fell back with a surprised huff.

Porthos turned away from the splayed figure and began straightening up the room. He kicked stray clothes towards the wall where they would be out of the way. The bottles he collected from the floor by the armful. If he didn't, he was fairly sure Athos might inadvertently kill himself in the morning by being too hung over to notice them until he slipped on one and broke his neck.

“Aramis was upset," Athos muttered into the dark. Porthos paused in his cleaning while he considered an answer.

“I saw."

“I’m upset with him though. He should've known better."

“What’d he do?” Porthos asked, immediately regretting his prying. Athos was clearly far from sense, and Porthos should not in good conscious abuse that.

“Tweaked the cardinal’s nose,” Athos replied, unaware of Porthos’ guilt. Or his presence, it seemed. He could be talking to thin air for all he focused on the empty space in front of him. “I should have known better. He can’t help it. Never liked that man, and when Aramis doesn’t like someone…”

Athos trailed off, his eyes muted of their usual light.

“Aramis likes you still.” Porthos could read the doubt and insecurity playing over Athos’ face as clear as day. All his stoicism, tightly locked in place when sober, seemed to crumpled under the weight of drink. “You’d be a fool not to see it."

Athos finally looked at him, and Porthos’ heart stilled in panic for but a moment, before he realized Athos’ eyes were glazed over and he could barely hold himself up where he sat. Sighing, Porthos knelt at his feet and began removing the other's boots.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about."

“Hush,” Porthos told him, affection gruff in his voice. “You an' Aramis, maybe you’re both too stubborn to admit it, but you do fit." Boots off, he waved his hand at Athos' jacket fastenings. "You got that?"

Athos fought the jacket with shaking hands until Porthos gave in and helped undo the clasps and buttons. He laid the jacket over a nearby chair and motioned the man to lie back.

"Now close your eyes and go to sleep," he ordered gently when Athos remained semi-alert. He leaned in close and squinted at Porthos, his face puzzled through an alcoholic fog.

“Do I know…” Athos squinted harder at him. Then, with Porthos watching in bemusement, his eyes fluttered and drifted shut, and his head toppled to rest on the pillow. Porthos bit back a smile and pulled the blankets up to his shoulders, shielding him against the winter cold.

Task done, Porthos knew it was time to go. He had stayed longer than he should have, and had spoken to Athos far more than was safe. He turned to leave, but a gentle grasp on his wrist stopped him. Athos did not open his eyes, but he stretched to seek out Porthos as if he were his only lifeline left.

Porthos moved away from his grip, hoping to ease out of the room without further damaging himself, but he stopped in his tracks when Athos groaned at the loss. Porthos' heart twisted fierce, agonizing circles in his chest, and he wondered again what the hell he was doing.

He cursed at himself, and returned to Athos' side.

“Shhh,” he whispered, “Shhh, it’s fine."

Athos was not convinced, his face twisted in pain and his eyes pressed tightly shut. But he did not voice his fear again at being left alone in a drunken haze. His competent, reticent Musketeer was too stubborn for his own good.

Porthos froze as he reached out to brush his hair back again, struck dumb from his course of action.

Achingly, a peculiar idea struck.

He had soft recollections of his youth of his mother singing to him to ease him to sleep, and the safety and comfort of her presence nearby. It would be foolish to assume he could provide Athos with the same, but Porthos was already a fool thrice over for these men.

Porthos stretched his memory back, slowly finding the words, and began to sing.

_"There were three sailors bold and true,_

_With cargo they did carry._

_They sailed away on the ocean blue_

_For the love of Spanish Mary."_

He would be the first to admit that his voice was not meant for song, but Athos seemed to find comfort in it as his breath steadied and his shoulders relaxed.

_"Too deeply now, did they disturb,_

_No longer could they carry._

_Swoon and swerve for the love of Spanish Mary."_

Athos' face slackened, and Porthos pet his hair back again when it fell into his face. As he sang on, he strained to remember the verses. How shameful of him that he had forgotten so much. This was one of the last links to his mother that he carried. As he continued falling through the melody, it became not only about soothing Athos but also proving to himself that he had not drifted so far away from him beginnings.

_"In Kingston town of high degree,_

_The buffoon, the fool, the fairy._

_All paid their dues and inquired to me,_

_For the love of Spanish Mary."_

Athos was drifting, but his fingers still rested against Porthos. Every once in a while, his nails scraped over the delicate skin of Porthos' inner wrist. Chills sparked over his body, and he concentrated on the words of the song to keep his sanity.

_"Beggar man, beggar man, tell me no lie._

_Is it a mystery to live, or is it a mystery to die."_

Athos was well and truly asleep when Porthos' song dissipated into the air. He had safely curled onto his side and his breathing stayed steady and strong. Rising quietly to his feet, Porthos eased towards the door. Before he left, he cast one last glance about the room. He would burn the image of the sleeping Musketeer into his memories, with the echoes of his mother's singing. This he would not forget.

He closed the door, locked it, and slid the key under the door for Athos to find in the morning. He left before he could second guess himself.

*

Porthos returned to Paris four more times before spring began, to the bafflement of his crew. He usually avoided predictability, the scorn of any pirate. Yet after The Huntsman would leave port, the foulest of moods descended upon him. He could not justify his crew remaining in Paris for longer than it took to resupply and locate a new target, but no matter how often he stalked by the garrison, or the taverns, or the cathedral, he found no sign of Athos or Aramis.

He did not dare return to Athos' home.

Porthos knew his action's had ascended past mere foolishness. He had no claim to these men’s lives, but it gnawed at him that they had been at odds with each other during the winter. Had they resolved their fight, or did it still simmer between them? The fear in his bones was that they had decided to go their separate ways.

He had invested far too much in a pair of lives that were not his own.

Spring was peak season for slavers; Porthos threw himself into his hunting with abandon. He sunk three ships, and ran down another to be dragged back to port for bartering. It was a sturdy, two masted schooner liberated from a Moroccan coarsir, who had tended well to its maintenance.

Porthos would fetch a lovely price at its auction. Piracy was a thrifty sort of profession, and nothing useful went to waste.

He returned to Paris again simply because supplies were cheapest there, and Bennetto had begun to aim threatening looks his way whenever the book balance was mentioned. Porthos looked forward to taking a break from constant travel, and he yearned to sleep in a bed that did not shift with every wave. And to eat a meal that did not involve salted cod. And to enjoy a fresh wash.

The sun sat high in the sky as they docked, all implications of piracy stripped from their rigging and sails. Anyone studying the hull of The Huntsman would see nothing more than a common merchant vessel. Porthos dismissed his crew, a pair of watchers standing guard with The Huntsman. He set his feet on dry land for the first time in months.

Two steps down the boardwalk his senses—already on high alert from the stress of spring—started hollering like something crazy. The port was too empty, and the men about the docks fidgeted and glanced at his crew with suspicious eyes. They were dressed plainly, but Porthos would bet his own ship that these were soldiers.

Had they walked into a trap? Surely not-- why allow them to disembark if that were the case?

“You there,” one soldier called out to them, marching up to point an accusing finger at Bennetto.

His quartermaster arched an eyebrow rather than answer the summons. He was too smart to inadvertently give something away like that. Porthos tensed at his side, mentally preparing for a fight as another plain-clothed soldier came forward, side-eying them for all he was worth.

“You the captain?"

Bennetto jerked his thumb at Porthos, which distracted from the dirk sliding out from his quartermaster's sleeve into his palm. The old man would not start a fight, but he would damn well not be caught unprepared. Porthos shifted his weight, his weapons pressing reassuringly against his body. He could reach the knife tucked into his jacket the quickest...

The soldier blinked in surprise, as if he did not know exactly how to approach Porthos. The sharpness he possessed before evaporated in the face of someone a head taller and far broader. Porthos knew he was an odd choice, in the eye's of this man, to be captain, but he stood straight and proud. He would not be made to feel ashamed of what he had accomplished. Not by a king, nor another captain, nor a piddly, puffed-up soldier like this.

“Can I help you?” his voice remained steady and his eyes forward. Deference, even to men who could hurt him, had never been in Porthos’ nature.

“What’s your business in Paris?"

“Cargo pick up for Fleur and Sons,” Porthos lied instantly, using an excuse that was older than he was. The alias was one his first captain had used often, but Porthos did not think he would mind the usurpation of it. The risk was in using a lie that could easily by checked, but it would buy them time.

“Well, have your men clear out. The docks are under the command of the King until further notice."

The soldier gestured, and Porthos turned his vision past the immediate threat to see another ship being ransacked by more plain-clothed soldiers further down the dock. He did not recognize the hull or the figurehead of the ship, but her colors were Spanish. He wondered if King Louis intended to—how had Athos put it?—'tweak the nose' of King Phillip. It would not be the first time monarchs stopped the world to inconvenience one another.

“I guess we mustn’t linger,” Porthos replied as casually as he dared, nodding towards Bennetto in a signal to stand down. At his urging, the rest of his men reluctantly left the docks for Paris proper. Paranoia ran strong in all pirates, and it was best to disappear into the city before anything alerted the guards as to who they were. Guardsmen were not known for their persistence in a chase, and Paris was a city built for thieves. They would hide until the port cleared. Porthos followed quick on the heels of his crew and was nearly to the end of the dock when a voice stopped him in his boots.

“I’m sure the harbor master appreciates you bothering every innocent merchant sailing into Paris, Beaubois.”

“Just minding the Crown’s business, Athos,” the gruff soldier replied, and Porthos ducked into the corner of an archway quicker than a fox. Pressing back against the damp stone, he took several deep breaths to calm his rapidly racing heart. God must be punishing him for something. He had no other explanation for it.

“Let’s make sure we mind only the parts that concern us, and leave other to their own affairs,” Athos suggested drily.

Beaubois cursed at the Musketeer, but Athos took no mind. Porthos crouched low and peaked around the corner in time to see Aramis glance to the side and roll his eyes. The bored annoyance on his face made Porthos smile.

“I don’t see why we have to be the ones to root around in this mess.”

“Because the Red Guard are too easy to bribe, and bribed guardsmen don't find things very well,” Athos looked at Beaubois as if he were a fool Athos could not be bothered to deal with. Porthos smiled fondly. Athos wore his disdain as well as Aramis wore his feathered hat.

Today, however, they were dressed similar to Beaubois, in plain clothes with none of the fanfare of the Musketeers' uniforms. Aramis’ shirt fluttered open enough to reveal the beads of his rosary. Athos’ hair had escaped its confines for the day and was gloriously untamed.

Porthos' day had vastly improved.

Beaubois sneered once more before wandering back towards the Spanish ship. Aramis gave an exaggerated scoff of exasperation the moment his back was turned.

“Why are we forced to put up with him again?”

“He’s a decent soldier.”

“Half the Red Guard are decent soldiers,” Aramis shot back. “Doesn’t mean I trust them. Or him.”

“Complaining about him will only put you in my bad graces. There’s no help for him being here, so we best accept it. Let’s just get through this.” Porthos could see fatigue and frustration written clear across Athos' face.

“You know you adore me,” Aramis smiled his wicked grin. Porthos had so missed him.

“Let’s not confuse ourselves: I put up with you."

“You were singing a rather different tune last night, if my memory serves.”

Porthos was far too close to laugh, lest he give his own position away, but amusement bubbled up inside. These were the Musketeers who grabbed his attention so devoutly in that dank, smokey tavern. How good to be near them again, and in much better spirits.

Athos glared stonily at Aramis; Aramis grinned and threw an arm around his shoulders.

“You should smile more. You’re impossibly divine when you’re grumpy, and I only have so much control.”

Porthos agreed. Athos managed to be both alluring and untouchable when his walls were up. It was a heady combination that just begged for someone to rise to the challenge. He was dying to know how beautiful, expressive Aramis had broken through it all.

But for all his vibrancy, he hadn't missed the layers of isolation Aramis surrounded himself in. Aside from his companionship with Athos, Porthos had never seen Aramis linger at one person's side for longer than it took to please and charm them; and he had looked so alone at the Notre Dame. On Christmas Eve.

Perhaps the Musketeers did share some traits in common.

“Even your audacity would know limits,” Athos finally said, calling Aramis’ bluff.

A foolish bet, Porthos thought. Aramis was shameless in his affections for Athos. Porthos could see a brilliant plan unfolding as Aramis quickly took stock of their surroundings, though he unreassuringly glanced over Porthos' hiding place. Athos lived too far inside his own head. Aramis, exuberant and loving, counteracted that as best he knew how.

Sure enough, the moment Athos turned away, Aramis shoved him into the murky darkness of a nearby alley and Porthos choked on his laughter. Casting an eye towards the Spanish ship with its roaming Musketeers, he hoped Athos and Aramis would not be interrupted any time soon. He breathed easier knowing they were back to enjoying each other. He wanted them to be happy.

They stayed occupied for a good, long while. Porthos grabbed a bite to eat from the markets on the dockside, and he reveled in the taste of fresh bread for the first time in months while he sat in watch over their hidey-hole. The balcony of the street ran above the harbor and he blended in well between the stall workers as he ate his meal.

He could not help chuckling when his Musketeers reappeared—Aramis exuded smug satisfaction while Athos looked disheveled but calmer than before. Porthos would have applauded if it wouldn't draw their attention.

Just seeing them again had relaxed his soul and filled him with contentment, two feelings Porthos seldom experienced. In recent years, he had lost himself in a boiling mix of rage, righteousness, and overwhelming paranoia. His life had settled without his will; but now in the light of the spring day, with his Musketeers copping a moment under a pier, Porthos could remember what it felt like to breathe, tension seeping from every inch of his body.

Soon, the raid yielded results as other Musketeers emerged from the Spanish ship with triumphant smiles on their faces. They headed straight for Athos, who Porthos realized must be in command of their escapade. Papers traded hands, and while many of the them chatted excitedly, Athos just looked tired. Aramis bumped their shoulders together, and tilted his hat down to give Athos a private smile. Porthos saw it too.

Athos folded up the papers and tucked them inside his jacket. He nudged Aramis as they started for the stairs. They would pass right by Porthos on their way into Paris proper. He was torn between terror or excitement by the prospect. Being so close to them, while still so far...

They passed by him without noticing; Porthos had no reason to feel disappointed.

It did not stop him from following them.

The Musketeer garrison looked different in daylight. Although the doors were propped open again, the many tables and the merriment from the revellion were gone. The men beyond the gate now trained and yelled, and Porthos could hear openly the occasional scatter of a musket or pistol firing, and horses neighing loudly from the barn. This sort of military base Porthos was familiar with. He had raided a few over the course of his career.

He would not go in this time, his luck surely would not hold that long. Instead he spied from around the corner, watching as Aramis and Athos delivered their paper findings to an rough, older man who wore an embossed breastplate and the same unmistakeable blue cloak. The elder man's face grew tight and stern as he read through the papers, and Porthos recognized the signs of a captain in him.

Porthos did not get along well with other captains. He sunk further back, loosing sight of his Musketeers in favor of his own safety.

Patience came easy as he settled in to wait for them to reappear.

The sun had moved some ways in the sky before they emerged. Their captain thundered down the road ahead of them, heading toward palace towers peaking in the distance. Porthos strongly suspected that he had thought correctly of the king intentions for searching the Spanish vessel. Athos emerged next, dressed now in his full Musketeers regalia. He began to follow his captain, but Aramis had stalled behind and was lingering in the doorway.

Porthos frowned. Aramiss brow was drawn in thought, and his hand absently thumbed his crucifix where it lay above his uniform. Athos turned to Aramis with a puzzled look.

"What’s wrong?"

“Oh, nothing,” Aramis muttered distractedly. “But I think I'd rather peruse the city for a bit."

Porthos shifted uneasily at the idea of them splitting up again, but Athos smiled, soft and quiet. He trailed back to Aramis. Although he did not touch, he crowded in closer than he ever had without Aramis' prodding.

“Bored?"

“Immensely."

Athos smiled his own private smile. Porthos had never seen him so affectionate.

“Alright, go on. Don’t do anything stupid."

Aramis flashed a grin that spoke of relief and adoration. “I’ll be as innocent as an angel.”

Athos would be a fool to believe Aramis, but he reached out to touch his partner's shoulder in comfort. Porthos was stunned at this blatant show of affection from Athos, but it brought out the sun in Aramis, who smiled like heaven itself shone down on him.

Athos spared one more glance at Aramis before turning to follow their captain.

Porthos pressed his lips together, inwardly cursing as he was forced to make a quick decision. He did not appreciate Athos and Aramis splitting ways. He never knew who was more likely to get into trouble.

Once Athos arrived at the palace, Porthos would be unable to follow his shadow any further. He could blend in on the street, but at the palace he would be a sore thumb. But Athos would also be accompanied by the captain. Surely he would keep his own men safe.

Decision made, Porthos stayed with Aramis, watching with half an eye as Athos disappeared into the crowd.

Porthos had not tailed someone in such close quarters since his childhood. There was a certain thrill to it, if he was honest. A degree of skill was required to anticipate someone’s movements only moments before they themselves made them. Porthos moved through a crowd without interrupting the flow. He could track one face in a sea of hundreds.

Porthos was good at this.

Aramis, he found, was impossible to lose, even with the city of Paris pressing in around them. He was Porthos’ true north here, drawing him in stronger than any tide. He had never seen someone move with as much grace and energy as Aramis. Under his tracker's keen eyes, the Musketeer stopped to speak with anyone who stayed still long enough, renewing his energy with every conversation. Porthos, who preferred his own solitary company, could only watch in amazement.

Before long (but far longer than it should have taken) Porthos realized that he was not the only one tailing Aramis. A cold wind seemed to blow across his shoulders as he scanned the streets. To his left, almost even with Porthos in stride, a swarthy man. Clothed in dark colors to better blend in the dank light of the street. His eyes were locked on Aramis in a way that Porthos knew well. He had worn the same look when staring down a ship he was determined to sink.

Porthos moved faster than lightening. The man was not skilled enough to have spotted Porthos yet, so it only took surprise and strength to shove him into a deep doorway. Sufficient to say, he had the man’s attention. He tried to claw his way out of Porthos’ grip, hissing worse than an angry cat. Porthos tightened his gripped and leaned in.

“Who are you?” he demanded in a gruff whisper. He was extremely aware that he did not have long, and someone was bound to notice them soon.

In return he received a rude string of Spanish. Porthos punched the man in the gut, and hauled him up when the man curled in on himself in pain.

“Who are you?” he asked again, now in Spanish. He wasn't fluent, but he could get by. He knew enough to understand the nasty words being spat at him.

He wrapped a hand around the man’s throat, drawing him forward only to slam him back into the wall. The man cried out in pain as his back and skull connected with hard brick and stone.

“What do you want with the Musketeer?” Porthos snarled. His hand slowly closed around his throat. The swarthy Spaniard scraped his fingers along Porthos’ forearms, but he held firm. Porthos was running on concern and suppressed protective instincts—the man had no chance of escaping his grip.

Finally his captive croaked something out in garbled Spanish, and while Porthos did not understand most of it, he understood ‘papers’. Panic surged through him, and a quick sucker punch to the jaw left him limp in Porthos’ hands.

What had been in those papers? Whatever it was, it had earned his peacock-man even more attention, now in the form of unsavory shadow men. Porthos searched the Spaniard’s pockets, finding sharp weapons and a thick rope. Not a comforting sign. He left the man in a gutter once he liberated everything he thought useful. To anyone passing by, he would seem just another drunk who had collapsed on his stumbling way home.

Porthos frantically searched for Aramis in the crowd, and relief flooded him when he saw his beautiful idiot chatting away to a vendor not far from the doorway. Aramis had no idea what had happened. He was talking with a grocer, for heaven’s sake. Everything was fine.

Everything was not fine. Porthos’ relief turned sour as he spotted another shadow man ahead. And another. Taking a step back, he cast his eyes throughout the street. Six in all. He could not handle all six at once.

Porthos moved before he could over-think his plan, forgoing passive surveillance for protective interference. He ignored the panicked frenzy welling up within. He would not be useless to Aramis.

Cutting ahead of his ridiculous peacock friend, Porthos pressed himself against a narrow alley wall. As his oblivious Musketeer passed, Porthos struck out like a serpent, slipping from the shadows to grab Aramis about the waist and drag him into the alley just as yelling filled the air.

He slid one hand firmly over Aramis’ mouth to stifle his anger. The other he wrapped tightly around the man’s waist from behind, keeping him subdued as he backed them further down the alley. Aramis fought in his grip, thrashing against him and even landing a few stinging blows to Porthos’ torso as he pressed the other man against the wall.

“It’s alright, it’s alright, I ain’t gonna kill you,” he muttered in his most reassuring voice, the same words he'd given Athos that first night he had approach his other Musketeer. Aramis did not heed his words, and continued to fight as the raging outside the alley grew worse.

“They’re coming for you,” Porthos hissed; Aramis stilled in his grip. “Whatever you found in them papers put a target on your back, large enough to get you into a whole lotta trouble.”

Aramis ceased his struggles. With his arm tight across Aramis’ chest, Porthos could feel his heart beating fast and strong. His breath puffed warm, soft gasps against his palm.

“You gonna stop fightin’ me, now?”

Aramis nodded against his hand. Porthos let out a soft sound of praise, but did not loosen his grip. As he removed his hand from Aramis’ mouth, he gripped his shoulders instead so that he would not turn and see Porthos. It was not perfect, but it would do.

“Who are you?” Aramis demanded, though he obeyed Porthos’ unspoken command to not turn around.

“Someone who doesn’t care to see you caught by these shadow men,” Porthos replied. “They wouldn't be kind to you, Aramis.” An understatement. What they would do to him terrified Porthos.

“How do you know my name?"

“I’m a friend."

“Can’t say I have a lot of friends who grab me and drag me into alleys.”

Porthos resisted commenting on his earlier behavior with Athos. Now was not the time.

The yelling outside stopped, and one of the shadow men peered around the corner, stony eyes catching sight of them with eerie precision. Aramis cursed under his breath.

“You gonna question the help of someone who wants to see you survive this?” Porthos asked, taking them another step back, further into the protection of the alley. A wrought-iron gate blocked their escape down the other side, but it would keep their backs secure, if only for a little bit.

Aramis made a growling, unhappy noise, but Porthos could tell he was starting to prioritize.

“How many?"

“I saw six.” Porthos did not mention the one he had already taken care of.

“Three each. Not terrible odds.” He could hear the grin in Aramis’ voice. Did the man have no concept of the danger he was in?

Probably not.

Fighting had not been Porthos’ first plan. He would rather Aramis run as fast as he could away from the mess and leave the rest to him. Now he knew that plan to be foolishness- Aramis would not run from anything. Porthos was impressed, if frustrated, by his determination.

He saw the first shadow man step into the alley, followed by another. Time to get to work.

“Try to stay alive,” Porthos whispered into Aramis’ ear. “Athos wouldn’t want to attend your funeral.”

Aramis startled under his hands at the mention of Athos, and Porthos seized the opportunity to shove him forward without resistance. Aramis propelled forward with his normal grace, and launched himself out of the alley to have room to draw his sword. Porthos followed close behind, but rather than taking the fight into the open, he grabbed two of the men and dragged them back into the alley.

He knew how to break someone apart in tight spaces.

The fight stretched longer than he would have liked to put them down. One frantically swung in the face of his towering presence, and Porthos finished him with a firm punch and a swift headbutt.

The second one was coolly rational in the face of his comrade dropping like a brick. He fought dirty, using a lot of Porthos' own tricks against him. Porthos struggled through being landed with a few nasty blows. Porthos was stronger. This wouldn't kill him. He finally tossed the unconscious shadow man away, and winced at the deep pain radiating from his side. Blood ran into his eyes.

The third man struck while he was distracted, lunging at Porthos as he crouched to recover his bearings. His attacker got a handful of loose cobblestones in his face for his troubles.

Porthos was done playing. When he finished, the man did not get back up.

Shaking away the blood that dripped into his vision, Porthos stumbled back into the street. His breath caught in his throat when he found Aramis. One of his opponents was down, unmoving and bleeding freely. Aramis stood crossing swords with the other two attackers at the same time.

Porthos had never seen anything like him before. The Musketeer fought as if in a dance, graceful and flowing. He never stopped moving, his whole body in tune as he parried with the shadow men. There was even a smile on his lips, as sharp and cutting as his blade. He played with these men, tangling them up in each other before they realized they were in each other’s way.

Porthos could not tear his eyes away, let alone move. He did not think Aramis needed his help. The man was brilliant.

Aramis feinted left and one of the shadow men fell for it, dropping low to avoid Aramis’ sword. Instead, Aramis smashed his knee into the man’s face. He fell down at Aramis’ feet. The other tried to back away, but all that did was give Aramis room to draw his pistol. A loud bang, and the danger was over.

Porthos' spell broke at the noise, and he realized now how close he was to Aramis. Stone cold sober, extremely perceptive Aramis who would surely remember him this time if he saw him. Porthos' breath turn to lead in his lungs at the thought.

He ran back to the alley. At the other end, the lock on the wrought-iron gate was not insurmountable--he had it open within moments. The fasted he had ever picked a lock, with the worst of consequences awaiting him if he failed.

Porthos slipped through the gate just as Aramis stumbled over the bodies in the alley. Slamming the lock back down on the gate, Porthos abandoned finesse and ran.

“Stop!” he heard Aramis yell. Porthos was scared how much he wanted to obey and turn back around, just to see his peacock friend. To talk to him face to face. Would that be such a bad thing?

_Yes_ , his instincts shouted. He had spent decades running, and stopping would bring the same misfortunes upon him now than if he had stopped before: pain, humiliation, and death.

Porthos ducked his head down, using every skill he possessed to disappear into the crowd. He heard Aramis shouting for him again, but he forced one foot in front of the other. He had been running for so long. He could not stop now, not even for them. He had strayed too far down his chosen path. Nothing could bring him back from it.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Porthos’ song is Spanish Mary, written by Bob Dylan and recorded by The New Basement Tapes. It is also completely anachronistic. I have no excuse, other than I really like it and think it's a good fit for Porthos. It got played on repeat quite a few times while i was writing this chapter. Listen to it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZKGqtSisReg


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!
> 
> Lots of things happen in this chapter, some nice and some not very nice at all. The trigger warnings are at the bottom. Please check them first if this is a concern for you. I've also updated the tags but sometimes it takes AO3 a bit to catch up with those changes.

Porthos thought the dreams would abate after seeing Athos and Aramis again. He had spoken to them, touched them. Protected them. Surely that would satisfy his straying subconscious.

He was wrong.

The Huntsman hounded the summer sea. Porthos had spent the spring digging up tips across the Mediterranean, and now he was chasing down a son-of-a-bitch slaver trader who hid and skipped across a cluster of islands scattered off the Portuguese coast. His hull was empty when caught, which explained how fast and unpredictably he had sailed the rocky surf, even at night. Porthos ran himself to exhaustion tracking the bastard down in the treacherous currents, forever mindful of the shipwrecked driftwood his crew spotted from the deck. His only saving grace was the full moon, hanging low with plenty of light for the hunt.

His crew rested during the day, but Porthos could not follow their example. The longer he went without finding his prey, the more irritable he became. The moment he closed his eyes the bastard would escape, and that was unacceptable. Failure would doom hundreds, if not thousands, to a life in chains.

When Porthos did slip into slumber, sick with exhaustion down to his bones, he awoke feeling worse.

His fatigue should have ensured that what little sleep he managed would be free of temptation—or that his body would be too worn to react. But the Athos and Aramis of his mind would not have it. Porthos lost count of the nights he jerked awake in a pulsing sweat, cock hard and chest heaving. His dreams were filled with breathless gasps and the obscene slick of skin on skin. Of Athos’ dazed eyes and Aramis’ wicked smile. Of warm bodies so tangled, it was impossible to tell where they separated.

Porthos threw himself into the chase, devoting his attention to The Huntsman in order to distract himself. For all the sea's vastness, there was intimacy in standing at the prowl of his ship and letting the waves pull and sway him. He concentrated on the taste of salt-tinted air instead of the imagined scent of sex and sweat. He listened for the watch bell toll and the waves slapping against the hull, to drown out the mewls and moans that echoed in his ears. The wind against the sails pushed them further into the sea and danced across his skin, replacing the phantom trace of fingers dragging over his chest, down his stomach...

His ship eased many of his problems. She helped him punish the people who would have put him in chains for the right price. She helped him free others who were torn from their homes and forced into slavery. She gave him adventure and purpose when all he expected in life were cold nights and a hungry belly. She was heaven and earth gifted to him in his hour of need, and he loved every creaky plank and patched sail on her.

As hard as they both tried, she could not erase Athos and Aramis.

When he finally slept, his fantasies became so much more vivid. He saw Athos spread out before him, clothes mussed or missing. His dishevelment was different from what Porthos remembered, more vulnerable and brazen than the contained, walled off persona he gave the world and all the more alluring for it. He gazed up at Porthos, his wide, deep blue eyes reflected the same disbelief, desire, thanks, and hope he remembered Athos showing Aramis, one of Porthos' brightest memories of him. Standing between his spread legs, Porthos hooked a palm under Athos’ knee to drag him closer and closer until their hips pressed together and Porthos could explore as much as he desired.

He dreamed of Aramis naked on his knees, staring up at Porthos with the same reverence and devotion he wore with Athos. He was devastatingly gorgeous with his tousled hair and a devilish look to his dark eyes, and it stopped Porthos’s heart to recall him so clearly. But his pleasure bore no sign of guilt or deviousness—Aramis loved to adore those he cared about. His reddened lips parted to let Porthos slide himself into his mouth, even as nimble fingers danced across Porthos' thighs and hips.

Porthos almost believed he could handle his fantasies, but the first night he dreamed of Aramis buried in him, filling him deep and stretching him wide, each slow thrust sending him spiraling into wordless gasps, they toppled into troublesome. They did not stop there. He had visions of Athos opening him up with gentle fingers, urging Porthos’ body to take his cock with a slow, steady onslaught of overwhelming sensations and quiet praises. Of them both exploring his naked skin with leisurely caresses, searching for the places that made Porthos shudder and scream.

He dreamed of Athos gripping his chin, forcing him into the same searing, demanding kiss he gave Aramis. He saw Aramis shoving him onto his stomach and learning each of his scars with a clever tongue while Porthos came apart under him.

Porthos had never allowed anyone to take him like that. Growing up, he had only known it as a form of punishment and humiliation. He would only spread his legs for someone if he was weak enough to have been caught and forced. Exploring the world had broadened his sensibilities, but he was only willing to share so much of himself. His needs scared him with how much he wanted Athos and Aramis to wholly have him to do with as they wished.

Even worse, not all of his dreams centered around the bedroom. If they had just revolved around sex, there were dozens of different ways to handle repressed desires even at sea. What chance did Porthos have of resisting Aramis, windswept and delighted in the warm light of a nameless beach. How tangled and tousled Athos’ hair would feel if soaked by the sea, and how his skin tasted stained with salt after a swim. Time seemed to disappear in their company. The Huntsman would rock them all to sleep with the stars stretched overhead in an endless sky, safe in her embrace.

He dreamed of reading Athos passages of his favorite books, and having others read to him in turn. He dreamed of attending Mass with Aramis and sharing in the peace it brought him. He dreamed of being happy and content for the first time in all his decades.

He even dreamed of sharing his food with them. Porthos never shared his food, not after a life of obsessing over where his next meal would come from. He, Charon, and Flea had all understood that they fended for themselves, and never willingly divided their takes unless in dire need. Sharing did not play into survival, but God help him, Porthos had been willing to saddle their packs in Calais with his own provisions, hadn't he? Even then he had wanted to give Aramis and Athos that part of himself.

Desperate to outrun his his own mind, Porthos hunted like a man possessed, catching his prey after a fortnight. As he tossed the man's body into the surf, Porthos did not contain his sigh of relief. Satisfaction ran through him at a successful chase.

But he had no other ideas on how to escape the swirling, complicated mass of emotions inside him. He avoided sleep when he could and turned his attention to the next hunt. He had nothing else.

*

Porthos had gained a loving respect for the sea in his time as a pirate. The smell, the sounds—when the mood stuck him, he lingered on the prow of The Huntsman and watched the endless waves rolling around her hull, freedom sprawled open at his feet.

He hoped to feel that again. Standing at the stern of his ship, he could only watch in trepidation as the three naval ships closed in around them. Atop their masts, the French flag snapped and waved. Porthos shook his head, exasperated despite the direness of circumstances that he would be chased down by a country he caused so relatively little harm to.

Under his feet, The Huntsman tilted sharply port side, a product of the large holes now decorating her hull. He held on to the low-hanging rigging to stay stable while the ships charged through the surf toward them. He did not look away as hurried footsteps approached.

“We’re takin' on water,” Bennetto reported, his voice as calm as could be in the situation, though his eyes held the beginnings of panic around the edges. “We won’t outrun them.”

He offered nothing else. Combat and confrontation were Porthos’s responsibility as captain.

Porthos considered fighting for a fleeting moment, but the titanic cannons loaded on either side of the naval ships made that option unappealing. They were heavy, gaping maws even at a distance, and he imagined how easily their fodder could take a man apart. They would not win against three better armed, undamaged ships- he would only lose men trying. Even if they managed to win, The Huntsman was sinking. Not fast, and they could probably limp along to a friendly port given a better chance, but that was as far from him as heaven. All that was left was a nasty plan, to which he quickly became resigned.

“Get everyone in the boats. If they make it to land, they'll have a chance,” he ordered, finally turning away from the approaching ships.

“Rowboats ain’t gonna outrun ships like that.”

They could if the ships were chasin’ other things. Porthos told Bennetto as much, and watched as realization dawned on his grizzled face.

“Cap’n-"

“Don’t ask questions. Don't protest. Just get 'em off the ship. Do it now," Porthos ordered. He felt oddly calm for all the hell he was staring down.

Bennetto did not argue with him further. Porthos could see that he wanted to, but there was nothing to argue. Trickery was the only weapon he had left.

The rowboats stayed well out of sight. They ran off in singles and pairs, hiding in the surf as the naval ships barreled after The Huntsman. With the coastline in the distance, Porthos had to believe that most would make it to land, even if their limbs grew stiff with the rowing. He would not consider anything else.

Porthos had sailed The Huntsman alone before, and knew he could keep up a chase for about half a day without need for rest. Not that it would go that far, since the holes in her port bow would stop him sooner. Sailing such a big ship on his own took all his concentration and energy, leaving his body burning and his mind in constant calculation while he worked. With single-minded focus, he blocked out all thoughts of what would come when they eventually caught him.

The Huntsman was a schooner and built to outrun anything. She possessed a narrow haul that outmaneuvered the hulking warships once in shallow water, but still they gained on him, and the coast ahead was broken with steep crags and reefs that would not allow safe passage for a boat his size. Had there been another beach in reaching distance, Porthos may have stood a chance to escape, and his enemies knew that too, and herded him away from shoal waters whenever he made a break for them. Between the three ships, the only direction Porthos could go was forward.

He kept running.

They boarded him by nightfall, each of the ships throwing lines into his deck to drag The Huntsman to a stop. He managed to slash a few ropes off at their points but by then the bastards had come aboard. He was proud, at least, that he was able to dump a few eager men overboard before they took him down.

He expected to be shot him on sight and thrown overboard for the fish to feed on. As the chains were shackled on, he realized he would have preferred it.

*

The moment they landed at the naval yard they tossed him into a dank cell. Porthos thought they were in Le Havre, but he could not be sure. Nothing looked familiar from behind iron bars.

The warden visited him personally on his second day of imprisonment. He had a puffed out chest, and a vicious pride gleamed in his eyes as he stared him down. Most of Porthos' clothes and jewelry had been taken from him when they docked, leaving him barefoot in a grimy set of trousers and a threadbare, wide sleeved shirt. He refused to let that diminish him, though, and held the warden’s gaze with his chin held high.

He refused to let this man think he had tamed Porthos.

“Arrogant little rat, aren’t you?” the warden rumbled, eyeing him in open disgust. Refreshing; a lot of people tried to hide it.

“Overstuffed, pompous dog, ain’t ya?” Porthos replied, unabashed when the warden snarled. The man had no resting face, his emotions easy to read. He was used to having unbridled respect from the people under him, and Porthos refusing to give even a semblance of courtesy only taunted him further.

Porthos may not have much left to himself, but he knew he could tweak this uniformed toad’s nose.

“You’d do well to remember to whom you are speaking."

“Oh, I’ve got an idea. Lieutenant, ain’t cha?” Porthos made a show of squinting at the shiny bobs adorning the man’s chest. “Don’t I outrank you?”

Looking back, Porthos acknowledged that he may have overshot. For all the man had no mask, the warden had a good, if malicious, grasp on his temper.

The warden reached out his hand and tapped a fingernail against the bars. The ringing echoed throughout the cell.

“Jest all you like, pirate. You’ll still be punished for your crimes. You’ll still suffer. And I’ll be there to watch it all."

That…sounded much more personal than Porthos was used to hearing from naval officers. Most felt they had better things to do and duties to uphold than hunt down pirates. He looked closer at the warden, trying to figure out if he knew the man. Some of his confusion must have shown, because the warden’s face hardened.

"You killed my brother,” he snarled, all pretense sliding away in his hardening eyes. "Alphonse Dupont. You remember him, don’t you?”

Porthos could not begin to hazard a guess. It explained the warden's ire, he supposed, but did nothing to refresh his memory.

He shrugged, and gave the warden his smarmiest of smiles.

"Guess not. 'though if I had a brother that doubled as a thieving slaver, I suppose I'd want to blame someone else for his faults, too."

Stony anger blossomed red over the warden’s face once more. He was probably imagining Porthos’ head on a spike. Sadly, Porthos suspected that story would play out soon enough. Pirates had freedom, but they also had nasty endings.

The warden left in a quiet rage.

After their encounter, the warden avoided visiting Porthos. He preferred to stare at his cell from across the prison yard. Close enough to see his gloating sneer, but far away enough that Porthos’ jabs fell on deaf ears.

He was not invited to his own trial. As the days passed, the smirks from the warden and his guards made him uneasy. They knew something he did not, and sought to rub his face in it.

He was not scared, in the ways he had pondered men in his position would be. Objectively, his life had always possessed the possibility of rolling out this way. He was upset that he would likely not receive a respectable burial, but anger was not his burning companion here. Showing fear, what an enormous waste of time. His captors would be made unbearable; and himself, less composed. That was no way to die.

He wished he knew what had become of his Huntsman. He was supposed to sink with her, had imagined doing so with pride.

After a few more days, the smugness faded. The guards still circled, but little by little Porthos saw signs of dissent and confusion in them. It set his teeth on edge, this worrying; a fear that was contained before now grew like a weed inside of him.

In the morning they came for him. Wrenching open his cell door, a pack of guards hauled him out by the scruff of his neck. Would he not even get a last confession?

He realized their plan as the post came into view. A thick, rectangular, sturdy structure of beams, enough to handle a great deal of stress and struggle. There was dried blood upon it, brown and flaky in the grain. He fought against their hands as they worked his shirt over his head, striving to throw them off before more appeared. He fought, losing battle that it was, because he would be damned either way.

It took four men to tie his hands to the rings at the top of the whipping post, his back left open and vulnerable. Panic clouded his mind as he struggled to free himself. Desperation made him sloppy and scared, and he flushed hot and cold at the same time. His heart thumped loudly in growing dread; breath short in his lungs. The world grew gray and sharp. The guards before him blurred, a black circle around him that split the whitened sky from the dark earth beneath his feet.

They could not do this, he thought hysterically. Try him, hang him, shoot him; anything but this. What reason was there in this!

But they could, he realized as footsteps approached from behind. The soft hiss of woven leather uncoiling.

This was not about killing him.

This was about humiliation.

_CRACK!_

The first lash shocked Porthos to his core. He dimly realized he hadn't known a person could fear a pain while they experienced it happening. The scalding rip tore down his spine as the shame raced up his chest and bloomed around his neck. Porthos bit his tongue to keep himself quiet. His eyes stung with tears, and he squeezed them tight to hold them back.

He tried to rally. He would be _damned_ if he showed them his weakness.

_CRACK!_

The second lash bit deep, fresh pain racing across up his back like a burning wildfire. Porthos pushed his forehead into the woodgrain, locked his teeth against the cries clawing within his throat. He willed his mind to remain his own in his determination.

They wanted to see him broken. He would keep that one thing from them.

_CRACK!_

The third was no more than a lick of the whip across the small of his back: a reminder that he was not in control, could not predict what came next. Porthos ground his teeth to keep from screaming at his own impotence, as gray spots appeared across his vision. His own blood tickled as it slipped down his sensitized back in incomprehensible rivulets. His head swelled with helplessness; he giggled with more than a little hysteria behind it. The blood itched where it seeped into his trousers.

His wrists screamed in agony, and he rubbed them raw as he fought against his bonds.

Each breath struck as if he had run the length of a field. His body rebelled against every quick, shallow gasps he managed to swallow. As his chest rose and fell, the skin of his back pulled tight until the pain was a crescendo. His head spun in a lightheaded frenzy, and it finally sank in that his control was a fading, bitter battle that he would choke on when he lost.

_CRACK!-CRACK!_

The fourth and fifth blows struck within seconds of each other—two deep, precise lines that licked from his neck down to the small of his back. The pain soared, overwhelming and all-encompassing as tears blurred in his eyes. His body arched helplessly against the burning hell, unsure of where to twist to lessen the pain.

For a jarring, split moment, his senses expanded outwards as if trying to flea from his body; all he could see were the black ring of guards, their cheers a stampede of foul jeering and lowly mockery.

The world sat still, cruelly painted for his scrutiny.

Porthos' world collapsed, imploded; his awareness blissfully dropping like a blue cloak at his feet. The pain like fire coiled, constricting around his sense of self. His vision faded, shaded as his thoughts became fuzzy and his mind stopped taking anything in.

_CRACK!…..CRACK!..CRACK!………CRACK!_

He lost track of things: the number of strikes, how to breath, where his limbs began and ended. The pain was impossible to push past—clear and crackling over the deep, throbbing muddle of _shame_ pooling inside him with every lick. Any voices in the distance were but unintelligible garble, drowned out by his own heartbeat ringing in his ears.

_CRACK!…CRACK!_

Sunlight felt too bright against his lids; too hot against his skin. Porthos felt like he was being flayed apart. He wanted to yell, to let out the fear and pain and rage bottled up inside him. Overwhelmed, he tried to stifle his swiftly building terror of each next blow, lest he fall under fear's crippling weight.

So buried he was, recoiled into his own head, that when warm, steady hands pressed against his neck, the invasion was so unexpected he choked on a scream. He jerked away in surprise, then agony, but there was nowhere for him to go and he groaned under a fresh wave of misery. His body shuddered against those hands, and when they chased at his skin, he pressed harder against the post. It remained sturdy and unloving against his forehead, and Porthos would be grateful for its stability were he not furious at its existence. He was torn between hugging it close or setting it on fire. Or setting himself on fire, just to be done with it.

“Shhh, shhh, it’s alright,” a rich voice muttered, and gentle fingers followed him as he tried to flinch away. Hands slipped under his chin, tilting his face towards the voice, compassionate but insistent. He did not open his clenched eyes, too terrified of what might be next and aching too badly to pretend he wasn't afraid.

The voice did not mind as it continued to utter soothing noises for his rattled nerves. Numbly, he felt the ropes around his wrists begin to slacken.

“It’s alright, no one’s going to hurt you anymore. Just stay with me, alright? Just stay here."

Against all reason, Porthos wanted to believe the voice. With everything in his soul, he wanted to believe, so desperate that it scared him. But his back remained on fire, and he could barely tell up from down. Each nerve in his body screamed—the touch was gentle when he expected pain, and he was so addled that he found it unbearable to withstand. If they had stopped, it was only to make him wait and frighten him further. This was a trap, of course another trap...

The ropes around his wrists were eased away, releasing him from their brutal grip. Porthos' legs would no longer support him. His bones felt fragile, and his breath ripped like glass through his throat and chest. He collapsed to the ground the moment he became untied. He fell leaning against the post, and he endured it with skin-crawling necessity so that he would not tumble onto his back in the dirt.

The rich voice followed him down, and those same gentle hands eased his face away from the post with so much tenderness that Porthos feared he would howl and scare them away.

“Can you look at me? Please, lovely, look at me. Let me see you."

Lovely. Porthos remembered being called that. It was a faint memory, and he floundered to try and place it. His mind refused to cooperate, unwilling to return at first, but the words struck something within that brought his world slowly back into agonizing focus. The hazy drift parted as he remembered how his body worked—

—and he cracked an eye open to a blinding mix of sick nausea and bright, unforgiving light.

Aramis’ striking face swam before him, haloed within plenty of dark spots and the graying space of his returning vision. His hair was clearly mussed from the sea wind, and his dark eyes focused on Porthos. Rage and violence were written in the crevices of the Musketeer’s face. Porthos fought to regain himself—he could not deal with more—but he slowly realized the other man's intensity was not directed towards him. Not his vengeance, no. To him, Aramis’s eyes spoke of...something he did not recognize, not through the blurring. Concern, perhaps? Tenderness?

He gasped as pain and the light and the rising smell of blood and sweat struggled to the forefront, and the pressure building in his skull spilled over like a dam.

Porthos twisted his eyes shut as tight as he could, but instead of hiding his face back in the post, he let Aramis’ hands guide him until his face rested against his shoulder. Those long fingers stroked soothingly up and down Porthos’ neck. Too late, Porthos realized why his cheeks were wet and his eyes blurry. He hoped Aramis would not mind his shirt becoming tear-stained.

“Can you stand, lovely?"

Porthos let out a pitiful groan at the mere thought. Safe in the darkness, he could not tell which way was up and every movement hurt. He could not breath without wishing for oblivion.

“I know, I know,” Aramis whispered. “But I don’t think you want to stay here. Come on, I’ll be right here but you need to stand up. I won’t let you fall."

Porthos did not want to stay here. Anywhere was better than here. Hell would be better than here. Opening his eyes, he forced himself past the nausea and the shaking. With a great deal of help from Aramis, he rose slowly to his feet. It was agony incarnate.

He needed to focus. He trusted Aramis to lead him to wherever he thought Porthos belonged, but he was terrified to think what might be waiting for him. He needed to keep what was left of his senses about lest he be led right back into another trap.

When he braved looking up from his bloody, faltering steps, all he saw around them was deserted courtyard. Any trace of the guards who had rushed him from his cell and cheered his pain were gone. Then, he saw Athos; and Porthos felt his panic flare anew when he realized the man stood in front of the warden.

Athos had no weapons drawn, but he did not need them. The cold fury on his face was enough to terrify any man into submission. Though shorter than the warden, Athos looked down his nose at him. Disgust, disdain, and outrage had him leaning over the quivering man like a towering wave poised to crash. Such a damn noble, Porthos could not help but think with weary fondness.

Between Athos and the warden ran the taunt line of the whip; its braided end was wrapped tightly around Athos’ fist and arm.

Walking was a trial all its own, but Porthos pushed through in a sudden serge of energy. Aramis was with him each step of the way. Athos did not move.

As Aramis led Porthos past him, safely out of the way, Athos let the whip fall from his wrist. The warden reared back, but Athos struck a fierce blow across his cheek, slamming him into the brick wall of the gate. The warden did not get back up. Porthos could only blink in surprise before Aramis drew him away with steady persistence. Athos followed, putting his hands on Porthos only with Aramis' gentle guidance, showing him where on Porthos' back he could touch without making the mess any worse.

“Come on, lovely,” Aramis urged as the three of them stumbled away from the prison. Now free, Porthos was fading quickly, and the dark spots in his vision began to overtake everything. “Just stay up a little longer. We’re almost away.”

“Porthos."

“Hmm?"

“Name's Porthos.”

Aramis’ smile like the sunrise. Athos’ small grin was little more than a shadow, but no less stunning. Porthos could not help feeling just a little lighter, but that may have been from blood loss because moments later his vision went black.

*

Porthos woke up and everything hurt. He was dizzy, and vague shapes moved about him. Other people. Right? Maybe. Or maybe he was hearing voices.

Maybe he had just gone crazy.

He felt a pressure on his back, and the telltale prick of a needle threading through his skin. He did not have to stay silent. He no longer had anything to prove—or even to stand against. He screamed and thrashed away from the ugly sensation.

“It’s fine, Porthos,” Athos? What was Athos doing there? He had to leave, leave now. Porthos could not protect him when his world was close to splitting in two. God knows what he would get up to on his own. Was Aramis with him?

“Right here, lovely.” Aramis was there. Was Porthos talking out loud? He hoped not. It felt like his thoughts were spilling over with his blood. It was so hard to think, and he did not stop himself from flinching away when the pressure on his back returned.

“No, no, no. No moving,” Aramis hissed. Porthos felt familiar hands on him, but it did not abate his flaring, raging panic.

“Stop,” Athos ordered, soft and urgent. His voice commanded Porthos’ attention. It stilled the chaos, just a bit, and Porthos felt his breathing come easier.

“Let them help,” Athos continued, his voice something to cling to.

Porthos nodded before he could second guess himself.

The needle was nearly as agonizing as the whip. It was a relief when he slipped under again. At least the pain stopped.

*

Porthos awoke slowly, and for a few blissful moments his world was simple and easy to understand. It was quiet. The sheets below him were soft and well-tended, and the mattress was real and soft and not stuffed with straw. He felt clean and warm.

Then he tried to push himself off his stomach, and the skin of his back stretched in agony against its stitches. What a horrid idea that was.

Settling back down, Porthos reevaluated. Heavy bandages were wrapped tightly around his chest and shoulder, and more around his wrists. The white cotton was spotted red in some places. Anxiety rose easier than his body, and its tightness strained in his chest as he slowly flexed his fingers, testing their mobility. He had seen tight shackles and ropes destroy more than one set of hands.

He made a fist; his fingers curled loosely into themselves. Rotating his wrists, Porthos hissed at the stretch and pull under the bandages, but the pain was nothing compared to the relief that flooded him. They still worked.

Rising slower the second time, careful of the pains in his body, Porthos reoriented himself. He noticed several things at once:

He was alone.

He was not in a cell, but a clean, well-maintained, little room with an actual nightstand beside him and even a fire simmering in the corner hearth to fight against the chill in the air. Sturdy walls blocked out the distant sounds of the city, and they were thick enough to keep the warm air in.

He was not even restrained to the bed.

He wanted—as always—to know where Athos and Aramis were. He did not think he had imagined them. He remembered too clearly Aramis’ touch, Athos’ eyes. Did they not think they needed towatch him? That he would try to escape at the first opportunity he had? He did not have much to his name at the moment, but liberty was a heady motivator. He had started from scratch before; doing it again was not so terrifying.

When his bare feet touched the cool wood floor, Porthos acknowledged that this time he would need to start from a lot of scratch. A pair of boots and a shirt were the first order of business, he decided, trying to push himself to his feet without jostling his wounds too much.

He would need to steal them, he realized with a sinking feeling. Anything he could use to barter for trade was either on his ship or in the prison warden’s clutches. They had even confiscated the few bits of jewelry he cherished—his Saint Jude’s pendant, a last remnant of his childhood in Paris; his obsidian ring, a gift from a young woman who had stumbled out of the hull of a slaver ship; and his gold earring, given to him by his first captain in a tradition among pirates, to pay for his burial if his body was lost at sea and found by a kind soul.

He lamented their loss, but he could not dwell on it for long. He had to keep moving. He needed to go. He needed to learn what had happened to his ship and his crew. He needed to find somewhere safe.

He tried the door first, tentatively testing the latch just to discover it locked. He should have guessed.

He had better luck with the window. It was not barred, or even locked, but looking out he did discover he was on the second story. Nothing but a sheer, steep drop after the ledge, ending in hard cobblestones. Porthos thought he could survive it if he slipped out, but he would not walk away unscathed. In his current condition, it was not a wise move.

He flipped the latch on the window anyway, eager despite everything to feel the wind on his face—a small reminder of his life. Folding his elbows on the window sill, mindful of his injured back and wrists, he cautiously leaned out to feel the breeze and listen to the noise of passersby. He smelled salt in the air and heard the harsh cry of seagulls, confirming he was most likely still in Le Havre. If he strained, he could hear the roar of the waves over the city noise below him.

Porthos tensed when he heard the door open behind him, but he did not turn around. Glancing down, he considered just jumping for it and damn the consequences, when a dry voice behind him cut off his thoughts.

“As impressive as your skills of flight are, I doubt you’d make it."

“Depends how motivated I am,” Porthos replied, taking one last deep breath before dragging himself, in body and mind, back into the room. He turned, but did not close the window.

He vaguely remembered the man in front of him. He was tall, with gray-streaked hair and scruff, and an embossed breastplate covered by a distinctive blue cloak. He wore a strong air of authority around him like a second skin; but unlike the prison warden, he did not try to impress it upon Porthos. Giving Porthos his space, he stayed on the far side of the room. His eyes were shaded, but Porthos could see the telltale signs of speculation in them.

Athos and Aramis’ captain. Porthos had never caught his name. He refused to let himself tense under the man’s inspection, but there was no other word for it. Drawing himself up, he concentrated on the man. This was a battle, even if there was not a weapon in sight.

In the captain's hands was a bundle of fabric, which turned out to be a shirt and a wrapped parcel. He handed the first to Porthos, setting the other on a small table tucked into the corner. He took a seat in the chair beside it.

“Not too motivated, I’d hope. Call me Tréville. I hear you go by Porthos.”

Porthos said nothing to that though he shrugged the shirt on with no complaint. It was new and of good quality, if plainly adorned, and Porthos could slide it on without stretching his arms to wide. Porthos was grateful for it, even as he struggled to hide his wincing. He kept his thanks to himself though. After all, Tréville had locked the door behind him and a pair of boots didn't seem forthcoming anytime soon. He was still a prisoner after all, if only with a kinder warden.

“Porthos the pirate,” Tréville continued after a moment, rolling the name around on his tongue. “You, my friend, have managed to make some powerful enemies and give me a great many headaches these past few month."

“Have I now?”

“Yes. You are the one that attacked _La Grande Fortune_ off the Dutch coast half a year ago, correct?” Tréville raised an eyebrow as he studied Porthos for a reaction.

Porthos thought back. The name sounded familiar, and the Dutch were heavily invested in the slave trade. Possibly it had crossed his path.

“Red-tailed mermaid for a ship’s head?” he asked hesitantly.

“Could be."

“Then I may remember sinkin' it.” Tréville knew who he was. There was no point in hiding his achievements.

“The Duke of Orléans had a great deal of money invested in that ship."

“He shoulda known better than to invest in slaver ships. They’ve got horrible return rates on 'em."

Tréville smiled grimly, creases flocking around his eyes. “The Duke of Orléans is not known to take well to advice."

“Then he ain’t gotta right to complain when I correct him.”

“You’ve found that he really can,” Tréville replied, giving him a significant look. The cuts on his back flared, and Porthos pressed his lips together to keep back the growl working up his throat. His fists clenched tight despite his protesting wrists. His world was supposed to be outside the influence of these high society people with money and power. It bothered him to be proven wrong, and he had paid his price in degradation.

Tréville saw his distress, and leaned back with softened eyes.

"What do you know of my Musketeers?” he abruptly changed of topics. Was his intent to keep Porthos off balance?

"Reckless," he replied, thinking not only of Athos and Aramis, but every rumor and story that had stretched over the waves. "Impulsive. Unaccountable. They answer to the King and God but ain't much else. Roun and Le Rochelle don't wish 'em well after the sieges and the wars and the,” he waved his hand to encompass the entirety of the religious conflicts that were still simmering through France. "Spain hates 'em ‘cause they’re a flexible, light cavalry, and they’ve got no way of counterin’ that. Their armada’s destroyed and their army’s in shambles. Musketeers are better equipped and better trained than what they got left.”

“You’re well informed for a pirate.” Tréville did not take offense by his assessment, stroking at his scruff as if it would hide his smugness.

“You sail?"

Tréville shook his head.

“God created one way in ’n out of the Mediterranean. Knowin' that Spain’s weak and Morocco’s in the middle of a succession war means gettin’ through the Strait of Gibraltar ain’t that hard anymore."

“Well, I can't count you wrong," Tréville commented after a stunned pause. “I’ll admit that I tend to train 'em to be more outgoing than typical soldiers, and the enemies come with that. Athos and Aramis though--like terriers they are when they get going. Had to order both of 'em off more than one case 'cause they never let go when they're told to. They’re damn good trackers, too."

This conversation had taken a strange turn, Porthos wondered. He suddenly felt that standing was just a reminder of how exposed he was, so he stiffly settled back down on the edge of the bed. Something about this man's keen, disarming countenance made Porthos think him more dangerous than an entire armada of bounty hunters.

“A few months ago,” Tréville continued, "I had my lads search every Spanish ship in the harbor. Nothin' behind it but politics. Any set of soldiers could’ve done it ’n gotten all those Spanish merchants to turn round ’n frustrate their king. But you're right. Spaniards don't like my men—don't quite know what to do with 'em. Course they found some documents that were a tad more sensitive than we expected. Politics is a murky business,” Tréville said with a roll of his eyes.

Porthos hadn't failed to notice that the man was mirroring his own speech, though with a heavy Gascon tint to his accent. A surprising tactic to be on the other end of, as he had not thought the man would stoop to such levels to put him at ease.

“It's the luck of my men that they caught onto stolen state secrets on a routine pest run," he continued with the air of a put-upon parent. "Athos was very upset when he saw he’d tracked spies into the city, ’n Aramis was all in favor of burning the ships down to retaliate. Now normally, they ain’t that incensed. Somethin' set them off."

Here Tréville cast Porthos a meaningful look.

“After threatening them with some months ’n months of babysittin' missions, they tell me that they seem to have picked up a guardian angel. After that, it took 'em maybe a day to put a few more pieces together, and the next thing I know? They're huntin' through ship yards for a convict I had 'em find about a year ago. Do'ya know a man who goes by Gravois?"

Porthos' mouth thinned. There was no good way to answer that. Luckily, Tréville continued ahead regardless.

"Surprised the bloomers off me when they dropped him in the garrison like some water drenched rat they’d managed t' drag out the sewers. But they stuffed a good meal in him ’n asked a lot of questions bout a fellow. Found out he was captain of a ship, whose enterprises may not quite be legal, and who has a fondness for raidin' slavers."

Porthos could smack himself with a chair. He massaged his thumbs deep into the recess of his eyes. What a fool he was for never considering Gravois a loose end back to him. He supposed he thought the man would never survive his sentence long enough to be a concern. Nor that Aramis and Athos would track him down for information.

Tréville patiently waited. It grated to have to explain himself, but Porthos swallowed down the worst of what remained of his pride to mutter, “We may’ve crossed paths.”

“I suppose we’ll go with that,” Tréville accepted when Porthos said nothing more. “Another surprise for me was that they had a name and a description, ’n it still took them a few months to get the trail on you. Most don't last even half that long when Athos ’n Aramis are hunting 'em."

Porthos averted his eyes and picked his fingernails against the wood grain of the bed frame. A shudder ran across him, and he stopped.

"What's got you so focused on my lads, hmm?” Tréville asked.

Porthos had no answer for that. So he deflected with a question of his own.

“Why d’ya let them manhunt?" He had assumed Gravois was a unique case, but listening to Tréville describe it, Athos and Aramis were old hands at tracking people. Only no solider he had ever met manhunted. He had been bothered by it that first night in the tavern, and it bothered him now.

Tréville raised an eyebrow.

"Most soldiers I know don't dig through muck to find shit," Porthos elaborated, recalling a phrase he had once heard from a Turkish army grunt.

Tréville shrugged. “‘Cause it gets dangerous men off the streets. And cause they’re unholy good at it. I trust 'em to do it, and huntin' a rouge bandit is good practice for huntin' a potential assassin. I ain't one to waste opportunities.”

He cast Porthos another significant look, but said nothing when Porthos just clenched his jaw and narrowed his eyes.

“Like Athos and Aramis?"

“Just like. They worked hard to find you. But, apparently, so'd the Duke of Orléans. He pulled some strings to find you first. Did ya know you’d have so many people interested in you? I had 'em on a training run when word leaked of your capture. Couldn’t keep the pair of ‘em still after that. So I started planning."

Tréville unwrapped the bundle beside him, flicking away the linen to reveal a hard piece of leather and steel. He beckoned Porthos closer, but he did not need to be closer to know what it was. Big and broad, it had plenty of room for the decorative fleur-de-lis splashed across the center of it, and the series of interlocking plates would offer solid protection.

Porthos did not know he was being offered freedom, or just a set of chains so complicated he would stand no chance of breaking. Perhaps it was both.

“My men do more than manhunt,” Tréville told him, his voice soft. “Quite a good deal more, actually. ”

“You can’t be serious."

“I’m old,” Tréville said bluntly, staring him down. “And I’ve gotten to be this old 'cause I know how to pick the men at my back. Titles and blood mean nothing in the thick of battle, when you got swords comin' from all directions and you’re just prayin’ to get through alive. I want men who know what they’re doing. Men like you." The accent had started to dissipate as he closed in on what Porthos now realized was his goal. He had stooped to meet Porthos, now he wanted Porthos to rise to meet him.

“That ain’t a smart idea,” was all Porthos could say. “I ain’t the kinda man you give that kinda power to."

“The power to keep evil men honest? To protect them against those who'd hurt them? To save people?"

"I already save people," Porthos snapped.

"You put yourself and the lives of your crew in danger to chase people more powerful than you."

“Power don’t matter that far out at sea."

“Until it tracks you down, drags you out, and ties you to a whipping post."

Porthos snarled, his temper bubbling under his skin. He was stressed and in pain and backed into a corner. He was being forced down a path with no options and he hated it.

"There's so many more suffering souls out there," Tréville continued. "Why stop at just slavers? You could be doing so much more."

Porthos stared, surprise written clear across his face. Tréville did not back down.

“Truly. _La Grande Fortune_ is not the first time your work crossed my desk. The king’s alliance with Turkey means your name’s been cursed in court for a good, long while now.” Tréville sounded impressed; Porthos thought him mad. "There's opportunities for a man like that."

“Like what opportunities?” Porthos did not trust this conversation.

“New life. You're wasted as a pirate.”

"I gotta say I like bein’ a pirate."

"You like parts of it, I recon. But I’ll tell you its easier to save people when you've got some measure of respectability. And as angry as I get, I promise hanging's never a worry. You don't even have to bow, except to the king. All you have to do is say yes."

Porthos tried so hard to control himself, but Tréville was relentless, and offered no quarter for him to hide in. He had never realized a conversation could be so like a battle. It was a tantalizing offer, and that scared him all the more. Nothing that good came without price.

Tréville reminded Porthos so much of his first captain that it was difficult not to say ‘aye aye' out of habit, but it was not freedom. It would be bowing down to another, taking orders and being at the beck and call of corrupt men. Turning a blind eye to the things that made rich men rich, fighting for causes he did not believe, and letting others dictate his motives. He would be under heel with no way out. It was as good as the chains he broke off others. He did not want any part of it. Another prison, if one less easily recognized.

Tréville sighed and his accent slid into something more proper. “I guess I will need to be more persuasive.”

Tossing the linen back over the spaulder, he stood. Porthos realized what he meant to do only moments before he opened the door.

Aramis was seated on the hallway floor with his long legs stretched out and ankles crossed. His face was upturned and cast in a cheeky smile as he spoke with Athos, who stood with his shoulder braced against the wall. He was more relaxed than Porthos could ever remember seeing him. The picture lasted only a moment before Aramis jerked toward the open door. He was on his feet and at Porthos’ side in an instant.

Over Aramis, Porthos saw Tréville stop Athos at the door. He rested his hand on Athos' shoulder, muttering to him in a voice too low for Porthos to hear. Athos’ eyes trained on him as he listened, bright and wary, and Porthos felt his heart twist. Saying no to Tréville was as simple as keeping his wits about him. Saying no to Athos may prove to be impossible.

He hated that he would have to do so.

Aramis remembered personal boundaries mere moments before his outstretched hand brushed against Porthos. Deliberately drawing back, he folded his arms and struck a sharp, quick smile.

“Are you alright?” Aramis asked in a strange, forced cheer.

Porthos blinked at him.

His wrists still ached and his back was a bloody, scabbed over mess. He was starving for a proper meal, and had a steadily growing desire for a bath and a chamberpot. He had a headache from stress and too much restless sleep blooming between his temples.

“I'm fine,” he replied weakly. Aramis’ smile turned sharper, and Porthos realized it was exasperation and disbelief coloring his face. Aramis did not believe a word out of his mouth.

Impulsively, Porthos glanced back to the still open window.

“I understand how being confronted by the men you’ve been stalking for the past year could be awkward,” Athos commented dryly as he walked into the room and Tréville disappeared into the hall. The door closed and locked behind him. Damnit. “But I assure you jumping out the window will only worsen the situation."

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” Porthos responded without thinking. Athos raised an eyebrow in response, but Porthos knew he could not explain his side of things without explaining everything.

"Your captain's horrible," It was a gamble to push attention away from him, but he supposed it was better than awkward questions.

“You get used to him,” Aramis replied almost absentmindedly. Athos had taken up Tréville’s old seat at the table, but Aramis was restless. He seemed unable to get comfortable, picking at his sleeve, ruffling his fingers through his hair, and fiddling with his hat in equal measure.

Porthos began to realize the Musketeer was likely as nervous as he himself was.

Well that made him feel a bit more assured about everything. Not much, but a little.

“You’re still bleeding,” Athos finally commented, nodding towards him. Porthos looked down. The shirt Tréville gave him hid most of his bandages but the red spots around his wrists had only gotten worse. Out of the corner of his eye, Porthos saw Aramis stop himself from reaching out. He seemed determined not to inflict touch.

Porthos held one hand out to him. He told himself it was to stop Aramis’ twitching, but the goosebumps that rose on his skin as his fingers traced the edge of the bandages said differently. Taking a seat beside him on the bed, Aramis slowly unraveled the bloodied linen.

His wrists were in worse shape than he thought. It was clear he had been bound tightly, and in his struggles he had taken off a lot of skin. The wounds were treated, but he would likely bear the scars forever. Aramis prompted him to test his grip and probed at his fingertips to determine how much sensitivity Porthos could feel. For what little he could do to help Porthos heal faster, Aramis seemed pleased with what he was able to perform.

“Bandages are in the cabinet,” Aramis waved an arm at Athos, who shot him a deep look but rose to retrieve them anyway.

“Where am I?” Porthos asked. He needed to fill this damn still quiet with something.

“The Musketeer garrison in Le Havre,” Athos explained as he handed Aramis a new roll of clean linen. “You’ve been unconscious for two days."

“Is it still August?” Porthos had tried to keep track of time in his tiny cell.

“No,” Athos seemed startled, and Aramis pursed his lips. Both seemed upset by his question, and they lapsed into silence again.

When Aramis finished rebinding his wrists, Porthos tried to pull his hands back, but Aramis held on to his forearm. He spread his own hand across Porthos’, and studied the sight in intense speculation.

Pothos’ palm was wider and his fingers longer. Aramis’ hand was unexpectedly calloused and strong. He had black gunpowder smudges under his fingernails and small burn marks and scars littered up the side of his arm.

Aramis’ lips twitched. When he glanced up, there was something determined in the light of his eyes, devout and a little scary.

“Sing something."

“Pardon me?”

“La la la la la la,” Aramis demonstrated, waving for Porthos to join in with him.

Porthos blinked. Aramis rolled his eyes.

“He’s not joking,” Athos added from where he had returned to his seat at the table. He watched them from across the room with icy eyes that offered no quarter.

Porthos was going to regret this. Put on the spot, he floundered. His resistance was unprepared for the strange request and crumbled before it had a chance to be mounted. He found himself humming before he could think better of it.

Shanties were what he was most accustomed to and what came to mind the quickest, but he remembered a song he had heard last time he was in port. It took a bit to find his voice, but after a few attempts he managed it.

_“Oh, you came out from the woods_

_Where I was waiting_

_Said you were making time_

_When I looked around you were gone back there_

_Oh, boy from the north beware_

_'Cause your night will fall again.”_

Aramis listened intently to his simple crooning, but said nothing. Athos had frozen in place, eyes staring off into a middle space only he could see, before he seemed to come back to himself. He shook his head.

“That’s not the one I remember,” he commented after Porthos had finished.

“I don’t-"

“Something about ships and ladies,” Athos pushed on. “I can’t remember it all.” He sounded frustrated, straining for something just out of reach of his memory. “Sounded rather appropriate for a pirate, if I recall.”

Aramis carefully returned Porthos’ hand.

“But it’s the same?” he asked Athos.

“Oh, undoubtedly,” Athos replied immediately. Porthos knew he was damned. And he had done it to himself. Maybe he could convince Athos that his drunken memories were wrong, but he suspected trying would only sink him in deeper.

The window really was a fantastic option. Porthos was sure he could make it.

“Excellent.” Sharp eyes turned back to Porthos and Aramis settled back to rest against the wall, his legs stretched out across the bed. He folded his arms over his chest.

“What?”

“Calais,” Aramis rolled the name off his tongue. Porthos’ blood ran cold.

“Or more specifically, the forest outside Calais. You know it?”

Porthos did not want to answer. Already so much of him had been laid bare before these men, to ask him to further incriminate himself seemed cruel.

But Aramis wasn't looking at him with cruelty, no. His kind face was painted with an odd warmth and curiosity, not accusation. Even his folded arms did not make him seem closed off. Porthos glanced towards Athos. While he was still seated a comfortable distance away, he was leaned forward facing the bed. For once he did not seem to be a shadow holding himself apart, but a concerned and quiet presence, open and encouraging Porthos to go on.

Porthos realized why he had been hiding from them for so long—he would never be able to deny them anything.

He nodded in answer to their question. There was more than one answer behind it. Aramis threw a triumphant look to Athos.

“Told you."

“I never disagreed with you. I was simply curious why God decided to give us a guardian angel.”

Porthos had no answer for them that would be even remotely acceptable. He had stalked them like a predator with prey, for no other excuse than having become concerned for their safety. Bennetto often accused him of doing the same for the people he saved and for his crew.

Silence fell between them again, but Porthos guessed he was the only one who felt awkward about it. Aramis had settled back against the wall after inspecting his wrists. His eyes were half-lidded but thoughtful as he idly spun his hat in his hands. Athos hadn't moved, still bent over, elbows on knees, while he considered Porthos and Aramis on the bed together.

Porthos had expected an interrogation and neither were rushing to do so.

It was a wickedly effective tactic. Porthos felt like he was only becoming more aware of them with each passing breath. He tried to tamp down the blood rushing to his face, but he had nothing else to concentrate on besides a steady, throbbing pain still pulsing through his body.

He tried to focus on his surroundings—the tempting window or the old table legs or the offhanded door—but trying to look around the Musketeers was like pretending there wasn't a naked person in bed. All temptation and promise if only one glanced under the covers. Porthos would prefer it if he didn't feel like the naked one. They could at least do him the courtesy of meeting his gaze.

He struggled to keep his defenses up, bracing his walls as best he could while sitting injured in a bed. And all they did was wait. No pushing, no demands, no hysterics. Just simple, patient waiting. He could stand it no longer.

“Tréville said you were looking for me?” He broke, weak as a sapling.

“Yes, though there was quite a great deal of misdirection to wade through. How much did you pay the thieves of Paris to lie about your location?”

Porthos bit his tongue to keep himself in check. Surprise surged through him. He did not pay the thieves of Paris, all the gold in the world would not be enough to manage that. The thieves of Paris only answered to themselves and the master of the Cours des Miracles, who Porthos had avoided like the plague after a spectacularly explosive fight a decade ago.

Fleeting hope swelled in him; maybe Flea and Charon did not disapprove of him as much as he had believed. It hurt to think of them now, but it was a good hurt. He made a promise to himself that he would try to visit if he got out of this mess. He could never return to that life, but he could mend a bridge he thought long burned down.

“Fine,” Athos continued with a slight smile when Porthos did not answer. “Keep your secrets. You are at least better at it than Aramis is.”

“Athos, please, I keep my council just fine,” Aramis sent him a look of exasperation and not a little fondness.

“He told me about the Spanish spies as immediately as he should have,” he informed Porthos. “But it took a mere four hours of waiting before he broke and told me the rest of it. Together I had enough to reconcile my own vague encounter with you. I was then scolded for keeping my own secrets for more than a day or so."

Aramis harrumphed, but said nothing.

“It was difficult to start out,” Athos continued, ignoring Aramis. “Tracking down Gravois helped. The man knows a lot about you, and was very talkative once we promised he'd not be returned to the shipyards.”

The man was a damn rat. Porthos was sure the displeasure ran clear across his face as Aramis nudged at his thigh in gentle rebuke.

“Don’t be a grump about it. Offer a meal to a starving man and he'll tell you everything. Which he did, he even described your ship down to her figure head. An archer, right?"

Porthos rolled his eyes, but Aramis knew he was right. It was the reason Porthos had settled on The Huntsman’s name. Aramis grinned back.

“We still had difficulty finding you until we started looking at common slave trader routes. Your path lined up with theirs almost perfectly. Our first hint came in off the Moroccan coast, but we were escorting the Duke of Normandy to Luxembourg. We tried to follow as you circled Portugal, but you disappeared after that."

Porthos remembered that hunt. He had been tracking a slaver who used the Azores as a home base. His crew had enjoyed themselves there, and they stayed for nearly a month while everyone took some much needed rest. It was a friendly port for pirates and smugglers, so they had been comfortable in lingering.

“We found you again a month later in Marmaris,” Aramis picked up. “We tracked you by word of mouth through the Mediterranean from Turkey and around Italy. We almost caught up again when you stopped in Nice, but you slipped out of the harbor the same night we arrived."

Porthos remembered Nice as well. He had been forced to leave ahead of schedule after his crew got caught in a brawl with some soldiers out of the local garrison. He had thought they escaped without much fuss, but apparently he was wrong.

Aramis and Athos shared a guarded look. Aramis made a small scene of pretending to seek a more comfortable position while Athos clearly struggled with his next words.

“We lost you after that. We think you made it to the Atlantic in record time. Since you weren’t chasing anyone, we didn’t have much to follow. Eventually word got to us that your ship had been spotted off the northern coast of Spain, and you crossed into French waters within the week. But before we could intersect, you were captured."

Athos stopped and ran his hand over his mouth. Porthos would gladly wait for the man to continue if it meant stalling the next part in their events. How odd to be hearing his journeys plotted out for him. Tréville was right—his men were excellent trackers.

“We found you were being held under Monsieur's orders and asked Tréville to stay your execution when the warrant came to Paris for approval. The explanations for why was a conversation I would rather not have again,” Athos' displeased look sent a sharp stab of guilt through Porthos. “We thought it would be simpler to have you signed over once we spoke with the prison warden, but we appeared too late again."

Aramis had finally stilled in his faux casual posturing, his eyes downcast. He wore a frown deeper than Porthos could remember seeing, even on that disastrous Christmas Eve fight between him and Athos. From his chair, Athos had lapsed into staring at the floor, head hung low like a dog's.

Porthos looked hard at them both, unhappy and morose and downtrodden, before it dawned on him that they felt guilty.

“Are you upset you didn’t get to me before I earned myself a few new scars?” he felt silly asking, but it was surprising to learn they might have cared.

“They shouldn’t have done that to you. Once Tréville stayed your execution, they were ordered to hold you until we arrived. Nothing else should have been done. That part was very clear,” Athos' words held a quietly building fury.

Porthos shrugged, taking care to do so slowly.

“Nothin' you can do ‘bout it now,” he muttered. He was still angry, embarrassed, and frustrated, but that would gain him nothing. He would likely never see the prison warden again; revenge would be a waste of energy when he had so many other things to worry about. His ship for one, Athos and Aramis for another. He still had no idea if they would let him go.

God, they knew who he was.

Aramis blinked at him, and Athos raised an eyebrow. “We’re the King’s Musketeers. Our captain meets with His Majesty on a near daily basis. We know nobles and cardinals by name. We’ve protected them and guarded their biggest secrets and scandals, and they’re grateful for it. There’s a lot we can do about it.”

“I killed his brother,” Porthos admitted, not holding anything back. “Well, maybe. Don’t remember the man. But he seemed sure."

Athos' eyes narrowed down to slits.

“Do you know how we tracked you?”

“Gravois and slavers?”

“He only told us who you were and what you did. Once we had that, we started looking for the people you saved.”

“They were all very concerned about you,” Aramis explained, finally unfolding himself. Porthos was keenly aware of the bed shifting as he came closer. “They wanted to make sure you’d be alright. More than a few of them made us swear on the Savior himself that we meant you no harm. They helped us pin you down."

Porthos was speechless again. His skin felt hot and flushed, and he had a sudden interest in the floor under his feet. Aramis settled in beside him. Their thighs and shoulders touched. He held up a questioning hand, and when Porthos nodded he peeled away the loose collar of his shirt to peer at the bandages around his torso.

“You should let me look at these too. I want to make sure my stitching is holding up,” his breath gusted in small, warm puffs against the skin of Porthos' chest but his fingers were gentle with the hem of his shirt. They very politely did not seek the opportunity to skim across Porthos' chest.

“You patched me up?"

“Oh yes,” Aramis smiled. The sharpness from before was gone, leaving only a beautiful warmth around his eyes. “I’m quite skilled if I do say so myself.”

At Aramis’ urging, he removed his shirt, nodding his allowance for Aramis to help him in easing it over his head. The man probed along the bandages, taking care in his ministrations not to press too roughly. Or take liberties. Porthos had been treated by many a self-taught medic before, but he imagined that Aramis would be the closest he'd ever come to a true professional. He even made gentle 'tsk'-ing noises under his breath as he massaged over Porthos' ribs with deft, talented thumbs. If Porthos wasn't overly aware of the bandages sticking sharply against his back when he moved, he could find this whole examination soothing.

Finally Aramis made a displeased sound and stood up from the bed. Porthos felt the cold draft of his loss quickly and frowned.

“I’ll need my equipment. It looks like you tore open a few of them.”

“Sorry,” Porthos found himself saying. Aramis patted his arm.

“I should’ve expected it. I just hope you don’t take a swing at me this time,” he replied with a wink before slipping out the door. “Don’t let him move, Athos!”

“I did what?” Porthos turned to Athos with wide eyes.

“You didn’t seem to appreciate Aramis sticking you with a needle before. You landed a few hits before we calmed you down."

“Oh Lord, I’m so sor-"

“Don’t be sorry; it was hilarious and it’s good to keep Aramis on his toes.”

Athos gave Porthos the smallest of grins, barely a twitch of the mouth, but his eyes glowed with good humor. Porthos found himself returning his own smile, but looking at Athos his eyes inevitably strayed toward the linen covered spaulder on the table behind him. Athos followed his gaze.

“Are you going to ask me too?” Porthos whispered. He was nervous; he knew he could not resist them. If he had been unsure of it before, being locked in this room for this short time had confirmed it. If Athos asked this of him, Porthos was doomed. He had sat too long in their easy company under the tender ministrations of their care. He had, apparently, led them in a chase across the entire bleedin' Mediterranean, all in his attempts to outrun his sinful heart. No port had been able to shore up his resistance, and now he could feel the chains wrapping themselves around him.

He should jump out the window and march himself straight to the gallows, is what he should do.

“Ask you what?”

Porthos gave Athos a disgruntled look, hoping it would hide his churning worries.

"About what your captain told you. ‘Bout that,” he waved a hand toward the table. Athos did not even glance at the bundled spaulder.

“Do you want me to ask you?"

“I’d beg you not to."

“Then I won’t.”

Porthos let out a deep breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He was shaking, and he fisted the blanket in his lap to hide the tremors. He wondered crazily if this was some sort of delayed reaction, because he was almost as scared as he had been when they tied him to the whipping post and he didn't think he should be right now.

The chair scraped against the floor as Athos rose to his feet. He walked towards the bed and reached his hand out, slowly, so as not to startle Porthos. For a moment his hand was all that Porthos could see-- bare and starkly white in the sunlight. He wanted to grab it and hold it the way Aramis had his own; he wanted to cradle it close and study it as if he could learn this man.

Instead he sat frozen as Athos brushed a lock of his hair away from his forehead. Porthos' bandana had been taken from him with the rest of his things. His curls must've spiraled out, free and unrestrained without anything to bind it. He sat lost, his injured and shaking hands hidden in the folds of his blanket, as he let his Musketeer skim his own, hale fingers through his hair. It wasn't worth it, he wanted to tell him, no amount of careful stroking would magically tame what he'd been born with.

Athos continued tentatively and with no small level of abashment.

Porthos closed his eyes and focused on remembering to breathe. The small touch was grounding. Far from unwelcome. Over too soon, as Athos let his hand trail away to rest at his shoulder and Porthos had to admire that this closed-off man had allowed so open a touch. Athos was not an easily affectionate man, and Porthos would not take his gestures for granted.

“We’re not here to hurt you, Porthos,” Athos swore in a low murmur. “Far from it, in fact.”

Porthos pressed his mouth together to keep from spilling everything out. He kept his eyes closed.

Tréville was a filthy rotten cheat. Porthos was beginning to suspect the man was above nothing when it came to getting what he wanted, and it mattered little to Porthos what insanity had led the Musketeer's captain to decide he wanted him. With Athos so close, knowing his piercing eyes were on him, it was impossible for Porthos to turn away.

Athos and Aramis had come for him at no gain of their own. They had saved him.

Was that worth the cage they offered? Was it worth giving up his ship, his freedom, for their offered protection? He had never needed safety, had never had the offer on the table. As it was, he could maybe survive some years more without it all. It would be no more than he had planned for his life.

Would their cage be worth the privilege of staying near them?

The wooden floor planks creaked, and Porthos startled harder than he otherwise would have. Athos braced him by the shoulder, and then those fingers moved up again and became a blunt, warm pressure as his palm cupped Porthos’ cheek. When he risked a glance, he found Athos kneeling down to be level with Porthos.

“The night of revellon. You didn’t have to get me home.”

Truly, these men would not be satisfied until they left Porthos with no defenses at all.

“You wouldn’t've made it yourself."

“Contrary to Aramis’ belief, I can take care of myself."

“Aramis ain’t got room to throw stones,” Porthos grumbled, still sore about the Spanish spies.

“Nor do you,” Athos pointed out in reproach.

“If I’d known a crazy, revenge-driven prison warden was gonna try and rip me open, I would’ve tried my damnedest to avoid him.”

“But it wouldn’t’ve stopped you from tracking down the next slaver,” Athos said. It was not a question, but Porthos shook his head anyways.

“I think,” Athos carefully rubbed his thumb across his cheek where he still held Porthos face. His mind seemed to be turning some puzzle, and his gaze was focused upon Porthos' as he considered what to say.

“You are more like us than you realize.”

Footsteps outside the door made Athos straightened, and he removed his hand from Porthos mere moments before Aramis slipped back into the room with a thick leather bundle in his hand. Aramis paused, confused in the doorway as he looked at them by the bed, before he gave them both a brash, playful smile.

“Am I interrupting?"

Athos snorted but withdrew to his earlier spot by the table. “No more than usual.”

Aramis grinned pleasantly at Athos’ mild rebuke, and held his hand out to Porthos.

“I think this is yours."

In his palm rested a small pendent on a battered silver chain. Porthos snatched it without thinking, unable to contain a cry of relief at the sight of it. Aramis did not seem offended at his behavior. He sat on the edge of the bed, and when Porthos fumbled to undo the latch he reached out to help open the clasp.

“Saint Jude?”

“Aye, it was a gift.” Porthos hastily grabbed the necklace back and swung it about his neck. His gold earring and obsidian ring were still strung though the chain, and he treasured the faint clanking they made together with his pendant. He had not realized before how terrified he had been that those bastards at the prison had sold them to line their own pockets. Aramis had delivered it back without knowing its worth, and now reached to help Porthos reattach the small clasping mechanism. It settled with a small 'clink' at his chest.

His earring and ring and pendant, all three of his talismans against his skin, cool and comforting. Part of his world began to feel right again, but...

“Do you know what happened to my ship?” he could not help but ask. He knew it was a dangerous question the moment it past his lips.

Aramis’ expression suddenly closed off, and that told him all he needed to know.

“It wasn’t in good shape when they hauled it in,” he spoke carefully, crushing Porthos’ world all over again. “They burned what was left of it in the harbor."

Porthos pressed his eyes closed to fight back a wave despair. He should have known. They would have done anything to stop The Huntsman. Until he heard, though, there had been hope. Maybe she would have been converted to a navy ship. She had been a good vessel, he'd done his best to look after her needs all these years. He'd hoped maybe that he would have a chance of getting her back.

He had thought he'd faced the worst at the whipping post, but the loss of his lady, the symbol of everything he had achieved in his life, it stole the breath right out of his lungs. The edges of his vision went gray, and his heart pounded in his chest. As he bowed his head, he felt tears burning in his eyes, and he pressed the heels of his hands to his face to keep them at bay.

Warm hands wrapped around the back of his neck and drew him forward with tender care. His forehead was pressed against the worn leather and soft cotton of Aramis’ jacket. His presence steadied Porthos as he shook, trying as hard as he could to hold back the sobs locked in his throat. If he broke after all this now, he was not sure he could put himself back together. Aramis embraced him steadily, keeping the world at bay while Porthos struggled to contain himself.

The bed creaked beside him, another weight settling in. Athos did no more than push their shoulders together, but it was enough. The three of them formed a strange triangle, but between them Porthos felt right and safe and it was unfair that he may have to give this up to stay unbound.

His sobs broke out of him in sharp bursts. He was safe and it hurt so damn much. His cries and shaking only grew worse, clogging his throat and blurring his vision and pulling at the welts on his back. He had not bawled like this in decades, but there was no stopping it now.

Oh God, his ship was gone. What was he suppose to do? His life, his lady, the sea, everything he had worked to create—destroyed by petty men with torches.

Aramis and Athos stayed. They were a warm protection, bracketing him while he tried to sweep together any remaining shattered pieces of himself.

Porthos stubbornly clung to them in their solidity, in their strength. He tried to will himself into wholeness.

“This is what we’re going to do,” Aramis muttered once Porthos fell silent. His tears still dripped slowly, but Aramis was resolute in his grip. He spoke softly, lips angled close to Porthos' ear as he thumbed circles into the skin of his neck.

“You’re going to let me look at your back, and you’re to keep your eyes on Athos while I do it because I don’t want to end up with a black eye,” there was humor in Aramis’ voice as well as compassion. “Then we’re going to eat, because I'm willing to bet that you’re starving, and I know Athos hasn't eaten a bite, so preoccupied he was in his worry for you."

Athos made a noise of protest that Aramis blatantly ignored.

“Then you’re going to sleep. As outstanding as my skills are, you need rest for your wounds to heal properly. After you're back on your feet and well enough to travel, we’re going back to Paris."

Porthos stumbled over the last suggestion. He had seen the captain tell Athos, but did Aramis know about the spaulder? About Tréville’s offer? Aramis’ attention had been on Porthos. He wanted to believe Aramis did not. His friend's tone was innocent of beguiling, and his distracted fingers were already picking at the wrappings on Porthos’ shoulder.

It was so damn hard to fend off Athos and his quiet acceptance. Porthos did not know how he would also counter Aramis’ cheerful determination.

“Will you let me go?” he whispered. He did not know what he wanted to hear more: that they would let him go if he wished to go, or that they would never let him out of their sights again. Both were immensely tempting for different reasons.

“Any time you want,” Aramis replied instantly, wringing Porthos' heart with the kindness in his voice. “We’ll even take you wherever you want to go. But where would that be?”

Porthos had no answer. He had nowhere, and nothing left to his name. He was still a wanted man in a dozen different countries.

“What do you want to do?” Athos asked quietly.

Porthos did want food. He wanted clothes that fit him and that he was comfortable in. He wanted to be whole. He wanted the last few weeks to never have happened, so that he could still be on familiar ground. He wanted to never move again, and to finally, finally see more of Athos and Aramis than what he caught at a distance. He wanted to stop running.

“I don't know,” he admitted. It was not a perfect answer, but it would have to satisfy.

Porthos gripped tightly to Athos’ hands while Aramis cleaned the wounds on his back. He ignored the painful stinging and focused instead on the steely concern of Athos as he stared right back. When Aramis guided Porthos to sit up straight, Athos supporting him by the arms as Aramis rebandaged his stitches, Porthos’ body trembled again. He could not help it, but the pain was searing. He screwed his eyes shut and breathed deeply, trying to ground himself to this moment, until Athos began asking him questions. He gently inquired about the scar on his face, the pendant and rings on his necklace, the places he had explored. It did not stop Porthos from shaking, but it did keep him from lashing out as he concentrated on his answers. He felt bad about the red marks he left on Athos’ skin once he released him, but the other man waved him off with a kind look.

“Alright, men. That's as good as we'll manage for today,” Aramis said once he finished. “We'll bring up some food. A full stomach’ll do you good.”

Porthos was still barefoot and lacking his own clothes, but as he was made to lay back and rest he was not bothered as much. They promised him supper.

Whatever else they wanted, Athos and Aramis would not hurt him. He was sure of that. Trying to run when he was still bleeding through his bandages would be foolish. He could wait until he was in one piece to sneak away.

*

Aramis found the spualder within the next day. Athos was a shameless tactician. Porthos knew he was in trouble.

*

It took a month for Porthos to regain the ability to move without his back protesting every little stretch and twinge. Not a day of it was spent separated from Aramis and Athos.

He had meant to distance himself, letting them in further would only crack his resistance quicker. But they were also his ticket to mobility. Tréville allowed him an unprecedented amount of privilege through the garrison and even the city, so long as he was with Aramis or Athos. He was not locked in his room at night, but there were plenty of guards on the ground floor below him. While he was not by any means starved, the kitchen was off limits to him. He was given clean clothes each morning, though he had needed to get stubborn about his footwear.

Aramis and Athos had been reluctant to give him back his boots until he told them that he had gone barefoot through the streets of Paris for years before he stole his first pair of sandals and that he was not above doing it again.

They relaxed more when he was still in his room the next day.

Le Havre was packed full of crowds rushing to bring their goods to market for the beginning of the autumn harvest. Athos was not terribly keen on being around the swell of people, but he refused to let Aramis and Porthos out of his sight. He trailed behind them when then ventured out but didn't browse or engage himself, content to watch them explore.

Porthos was not sure how to perceive Athos’ odd, insistent separation. Aramis took his self-imposed isolation in stride, allowing him space while peripherally staying aware of him, but Porthos could not help glancing over his shoulder every once in a while. Athos would smile when he did, then herded him back toward Aramis.

Porthos enjoyed his days learning the streets with them. Aramis was witty company and an excellent guide. More familiar with the city proper, he led Porthos from cathedrals to canals as Porthos wished. Rather than complain when Porthos stopped to gawk, Aramis went out of his way to find new and interesting places. Soon Porthos found himself in the city at least twice a week, Aramis keeping a supportive arm about his shoulder while Athos regarded them from a few paces behind. Some days, Porthos almost forgot that the men who escorted him may soon be his jailers.

That did not stop Porthos from being unwise with their attentions.

Athos offered to spar with him after he caught Porthos eyeing the weapons at the armory. Porthos had been preoccupied imagining what he could smuggle out of the room without anyone noticing, but he eagerly took up the offer. His body felt out of practice and stiff with disuse, and if sparing with Athos was the only way he could get a blade back in his hand so be it.

Less than an hour into their session, he realized Athos was by far the best swordsman he had ever come across. Clearly he was going easy on Porthos, who still stumbled and flinched whenever his back ached, but even with his courtesy, Porthos did not win a single one of their bouts.

People usually kept their distance when fighting Porthos. He was a head taller and a few handspans wider than most, so even against a talented swordsman, he could usually push through on strength and speed alone. Combined with creativity and some less than savory tricks he had learned on the streets of Paris and through a life of piracy, and it was rare to find a fight he could not get out of in relatively one piece.

With Athos he was in over his head. Porthos found himself with his back against a wall and a sword point in his face before he could count to five.

“Not bad,” he grunted, the blade of Athos' sword resting on the skin of his neck. His practice sword, a light, flimsy thing that felt more like a toothpick in his hand, slipped from his sore fingers. He didn't know it was possible to be so thoroughly trounce in so short a time, but there was no smugness or pride in Athos’ face, only a careful blankness with a bit of studied intent.

“You leave yourself wide open."

“Do I?” Porthos asked, stalling as he studied Athos' form.

“Yes,” Athos raised his sword and stepped back. “Don’t assume size and intimidation are going to win you a fight. You’ll just end up hurting yourself.”

“Really now?" Porthos decided on his target.

“We should look for a stronger blade, it may help—,” Porthos slipped inside Athos' reach and, wrapping one hand on hip and another on shoulder, tilted him back through the air. He used his momentum to slam them them both into the ground, Athos flat on his back with the breath knocked out of him. Porthos slid a knee onto his chest and rested his hand at his throat.

Athos’ sword clattered to the ground far out of reach.

“Don't think disarmed means harmless,” Porthos couldn't resist a smile, and bopped him impertinently on the nose to emphasis his point. He had taught the same to many of his crew, and it had served them well. Athos gave him a rueful glare and tapped his shoulder in a signal to let him up. Gripping his hand, Porthos hauled him to his feet. He was careful not to laugh at Athos' surprise at being singlehandedly lifted like he weighed nothing.

“Do that again,” Athos ordered. He was watching Porthos with even more scrutiny as they both retrieved their swords. He did not seem offended that he had been neatly dumped on his back, as Porthos half feared he would be; instead, he looked intrigued.

Confident, steady, and completely sure of himself, Athos put him through his paces mercilessly that day. Porthos only mildly overstretched his injuries by throwing the man around a few more times, and was later grateful when Aramis found their behavior funny. Their missing friend demanded Porthos tell him of their day while he applied a healing salve to numb the pains in his back and wrists. Porthos languished under the other man's attentions, Aramis laughed far too close against the back of his neck, and Athos mullishly insisted he hadn't been thrown that far.

The next time they sparred, Athos presented him with a brand new schiavona. Porthos desperately wanted to know where it had come from, but Athos refused to say. Giving it a few test swings, Porthos could not help but be impressed. It fit his hand much better than the practice swords in the garrison courtyard, and even outmatched the blade he had on The Huntsman. Broader than he was expecting, it had a hefty weight and a good balance, made for hack and slash techniques more than the thrust and parries Athos and the other Musketeers favored.

“This one should suit you better,” Athos tapped Porthos' hand with his fingers to get Porthos to hold the hilt higher. Athos inspected the fit of the hilt and watched as Porthos rotated his wrists to test the weight, and even ran him through some exercises to be sure the sword did as it should. Once he was satisfied, he took up position opposite of Porthos.

“I want you to last ten moves against me before trying to disarm without the sword,” he challenged. Porthos felt his lips quirk; Athos did not approve of his habit of ditching his sword the moment he had an opportunity to get his hands dirty. He nodded anyway and took up position.

He lasted eight moves at best that day. He would take it as a victory.

Their practices became routine after that. Porthos never realized how many holes were in his swordsmanship, but Athos was patient in correcting and suggesting improvements. To return his kind consideration, Porthos was just as keen to help Athos recognize that, deadly as he was with a blade, he was a sitting duck the moment someone disarmed him. Surviving without weapons was just as necessary a skill. He did Athos the favor of reminding him, which was often followed by a lovely view of the sky.

Porthos found himself enjoying, even looking forward to, their odd mix of teaching and learning from each other during their sparring sessions.

One Sunday, when the weather had turned chilly and fog-filled, Aramis offered to take him to Mass. Porthos jumped at the opportunity; he had not been to Mass since last Christmas.

The service was a lovely one about kindness and charity that inspired Porthos to do something he had not done in quite a while. Aramis eyed him in open suspicion when Porthos dropped a handful of coins into the collection plate as it passed. Money was another thing that had been carefully kept from him during his stay at the garrison, and he could not fault his friend for being curious.

“Where did you get that?"

Porthos resisted laughing at Aramis’ scandalized tone.

“See the pompous windbag on the cushioned seat up front?”

Aramis’s eyes found him in seconds. The man's bearing screamed that of an over-privileged noble, from his gaudy clothes to his upturned nose.

“What about him?"

“Could hear him jingling the whole way down the aisle. Worse than a tambourine. Couldn’t resist myself.”

“Well, who among us can resist liberating a few extra coins in the service of God?” Aramis replied, looking stunned but intrigued.

Porthos was saved from responding by the start of communion, but the look on Aramis’ face did not falter through the end of Mass. He was not one to be denied. Porthos lasted all of a block after leaving the cathedral before he broke.

"What do you want?"

“Show me."

Porthos blinked. “Show you what?"

“Pickpocketing,” Aramis' eyes were intent, and he was barely restraining his excitement. "Teach me how to do it."

“That’s probably not a good idea.” Porthos could only imagine Tréville’s look of disapproval if he found Porthos enabling Aramis’ wilder inclinations.

“Nothing worth knowing ever is,” Aramis waved logic aside. “And I can imagine that’s a skill well worth knowing."

Porthos put up a weak resistance, but by the time they returned to the garrison Aramis had him wrapped around his finger. He wheedled and pleaded and cajoled and flattered, without end or shame, and Porthos gave in before he could decide to make his own request for something foolish.

The next day they started lessons, and Porthos shouldn't have been surprised that Aramis took to it like a duck to water. The man had long, dexterous fingers and a bony, pliant thumb that folded neatly out of the way. In little time Aramis was pulling coins from a spare jacket they had slung over the back of a chair; Porthos had even found a small bell to attach that would jingle on every failed attempt.

They practiced on and off for the rest of the week. When Aramis became too skilled for the bell and jacket, Porthos dared Aramis to practice on him, making the man promise first that he would try on no one else yet. He was relieved when Aramis agreed. He did not think the rest of the Musketeers in the garrison would appreciate Aramis' newfound skill.

“You’re lingering too much,” he criticized, catching Aramis’ hand as it skated against his shirt. “If you can’t find what you’re looking for on the first touch, let it go and find another target.”

“That’s no fun,” Aramis pouted, pinching lightly at his ribs before he withdrew his hand. “I’m getting better though.”

“You are,” Porthos agreed. He hoped the garrison forgave him for what he had just unleashed. Athos had already taken to glaring at Aramis when his things became misplaced.

“Glad you agree,” Aramis smiled, too mischievously for comfort. “So in the spirit of celebration, let’s play a game.”

Nothing good could come from that voice, but Porthos made a curious noise despite himself.

“Mass, on Sunday,” Aramis proposed, leaning forward with wicked, delighted eyes. His excitement was contagious, and Porthos found himself grinning in return. He really was doomed. "Let’s see who can collect more for the offertory.”

“The what?”

Aramis pressed his lips together, but it did nothing to hide the smile that lit up his eyes. “Alms.”

“You wanna steal from folks at Mass?"

“For the betterment of the parish."

“And to show off how good you’ve gotten.”

“And to show off how good I’ve gotten.”

Porthos agreed in the end, and the joy on Aramis’ face called to some long neglected ache, buried by Porthos through years of rage determined survival.

It sounded like fun.

He insisted on a few ground rules before they started: only those who had the money to stay seated during Mass were open to their game. Jewels were off limits, since it was impossible to guess which had sentiment. People tended to get touchy about losing priceless family heirlooms or gifts.

He was fairly sure God himself was shaking his head in disapproval.

The sermon that week was about love and commitment. Porthos tried to ignore it while he worked, but it rang true in his ears.

Aramis made up for his inexperience with charm and riskiness. Porthos could only gape as he watched him swipe coin from the purse of a Comtessa by caressing her thigh. Four pews from the front.

A competitive urge struck hot through Porthos. He would need to up his game.

So he switched to more complex grabs and misdirections that he had not shown off yet. It was a wise move, because even Aramis couldn't master what he'd never been taught. Aramis was quick to catch on to Porthos' changing tactics. He arched a brow in feigned disinterest when Porthos fumbled his hat from his head and, as a small child was urged by his mother to retrieve his hat from under the pew, nicked an entire pouch of coin from the boy's huffing father. Porthos tilted his hat in thanks to the boy, and turned to grin wildly at Aramis.

Aramis wore smug well for someone who lost a bet, but Porthos won by not as much as he should have.

Another month passed.

Porthos was torn between looking for a way out and finding himself more and more easily drawn to his Musketeers' company. He could not erase the memory of rush and glee and openness the open sea gave him, but it had become harder and harder to to recall. He felt just as much glee the day Athos managed to pin him the first time, or when Aramis finally won their now weekly game at Mass. He felt just as much unbound when he was with them.

Porthos had no idea where he would fall next.

One night, the three ended up in Porthos' room after a lazy afternoon at the garrison. Lazy for Porthos, at least, as he had watched Athos and Aramis run through a series of drills that were both grueling and fantastically entertaining, especially since he was not being put through them. Tréville had vanished earlier that week, sent on mission by the king, but the lieutenant in charge was more than happy to run the stationed regiment through their paces. Aramis and Athos retreated with Porthos to his room after, Aramis grumbling that the standard barracks on the ground floor were too loud and onerous to allow decent conversation.

Porthos was not surprised when Athos piled in with an armful of wine bottles, some of the overflow being held by Aramis, but there was more than enough for each of them. Soon enough he was pleasantly inebriated and distracted by good company; he paid no mind to how quickly their drink vanished.

The window of the room, which Porthos kept open as often as he could, brought in the sea breeze and the comforting scent of salt and water. Porthos loved that smell, and between that and the wine he felt more at ease than he had been since he woke up at the garrison. He sat on the inside corner of the bed, curled up with a pillow to brace his back from the wall. Athos dominated the same table chair as always, which over the months had slipped closer to the bed so that Athos could slouch in his seat with his feet propped on the low wooden bed frame. Aramis had no set space, sometimes sitting on the bed with Porthos, sometimes perched on the window ledge, sometimes crouched so close to the simmering fireplace he may as well be in it. This night found him sprawled at the foot of Porthos’ bed, far enough to allow Porthos space but close that his hand lay propped against the calf of Porthos' leg, which he would pat sometimes in the spirit of camaraderie.

They traded stories well into the night, tipsy on cheap wine and easy companionship. The candlelight had dipped low on the table but their forms were familiar now, in ways no shadows could hide. Porthos looked across at Athos, relaxed and heavy lidded in his chair, and at Aramis, who had confiscated the bottom half of Porthos' leg as a pillow, and he felt the last of his defenses crumble into dust at his feet in their company. He was warm and safe with them. The truth of it crashed through him in an endless wave, pummeling so hard and fast in his chest that he wondered he could still breathe through the pain of it.

He was so disturbed, trying to stuff his heart back into a box and lock it up, that he did not see the trouble looming on the horizon.

“Do you know,” Aramis said from where he was still giggling into Porthos' knee, having delighted in Porthos’ tales of his first days as a pirate. “I don’t think you’ve told us how you first stumbled onto us.”

Warning bells started ringing, loud like the Mass bells at the Notre Dame, but he was too absorbed in the scratchy press of Aramis' mustache against his bare ankle to heed caution.

“You know when. The night you tracked down Gravois.”

Aramis’s eyes were dark and sultry, just as they had been that night a year ago.

“I remember you that night, I think,” His hair swished against the bed as he tilted his head back to look at Porthos. “Everyone in the room was so aware of you. Kept glancing at you, talking about you. Could tell everyone in that room wanted you.”

Porthos snorted louder than he meant. Then he coughed, and took another graceless sip from his wine bottle.

“Think you might be mistakin' about a few things there,” he finally muttered. “You were the one 'had that place under your thumb.”

Athos gave a quiet chuckle, but said nothing.

“Did you wonder who we were?"

Porthos didn't fight the grin that crossed his face.

“Had you pinned for Musketeers the second I saw you. May 's well tattoo ‘soldier’ across your foreheads. After that, just took some narrowin’ down. Thought you was after me for a bit.”

“And you stuck around?” Athos interjected with a raised brow. “Bold move, even for a pirate.”

“I's curious,” Porthos said, mouth far ahead of his thoughts. “After everythin’ else I saw that night, I saw…” he paused, blinking.

Glancing down, he noticed his bottle was emptier than he had thought it was.

“What else?” Aramis asked, his tone light but his eyes sharp. He smiled that wicked smile, and his upside-down face was enthralling and open and beautiful.

Porthos wanted that.

“I…I saw you both. In your room."

For a heartbeat no one moved. Aramis' lively, expressive face flooded in astonishment, his lips parted and his eyes blown wide. Porthos did not turn to look at Athos, who froze so quickly that his bottle slipped from his hand and hit the floor with a loud, deafening clatter.

Aramis twisted and was on him in the next moment. His hand buried into Porthos' thick curls, and the other braced on the wall. He bore his own weight as he straddled Porthos' lap, ever mindful of his still healing back. His face pressed in close only to pause a hair's breath away from touching. Exhaling slowly, he let his breath play over Porthos’ parted lips in delicious anticipation.

“May I?”

Stunned, all Porthos could do was nod. As if he would refuse for anything in the world. Aramis’ lips slid over his own, hot and demanding and perfect. He stole his breath as he explored Porthos’ teeth and the delicate skin at the roof of his mouth, and Porthos was pushed back into the pillows by the force of it. This close, it was easy for Aramis to hear his gasp as the wounds on his back sparked to life, even though Porthos tried to stifle the pain. He whined when Aramis hastily pulled back, the firelight flickering in his dark, wide eyes as he gazed down at Porthos.

“Alright?”

“Aye,” he muttered, breathless from the kiss and the surprise. “I don’t-,” his words were cut off as Aramis ducked back down to capture his mouth again. Porthos was perfectly happy with that.

Aramis’ fingers swiftly untied the laces of his shirt, pulling it back to reveal more skin as he mouthed a path down Porthos’ jaw. Moaning in abandon, he tilted his head back to give Aramis free reign. He did not protest when Aramis urged his thighs apart and slipped into the space between with a look of reverence on his face.

“You,” Aramis muttered between soft nips and kisses. “Have no idea. How long. I’ve been waiting. To do this.” He landed a sharper kiss below his ear, lined with a bit of teeth, and the sound of Porthos’ cry echoed off the walls.

“Shh, shhh.” A hand, cooler than Aramis’ but just as confident and calloused pressed against his cheek. Athos brushed his thumb across Porthos’ panting lips in soft reprimand, smiling slightly as Porthos fought to focus on him. “Don’t want to wake the whole garrison, do we?”

“You try stayin’ quiet when he’s—,” Porthos had to cut himself off when Aramis, nosing at the vee of shirt, worked a clever hand underneath to find the sensitive skin at the small of his back.

“May I?"

“I swear to the Lord above, if you ask me that again-yes!"

Aramis' fingers promptly went lower, and Porthos arched up into him as pleasure surged through his veins. Athos took his mouth before he cried out again, content to silence him while Aramis drove him to madness.

At a loss for what to do, Porthos reached up to grab at Athos’ collar with shaking fingers, wrapped his other over Aramis’ hand where it braced against his ribcage, and held on for dear life. It was so hard to think past the the feel of Athos’ beard against the corners of his mouth, of Aramis’ urgent fingers working Porthos’ trousers down his hips, of the loud thud of his heartbeat in his ears.

Athos was diligent in swallowing his shouts as Aramis' hands trailed down his ass to brush against his entrance. The touch sent his nerves running wild as his hips arched off the bed. His mind went blank with equal parts shock and pleasure, his awareness narrowed on those clever fingers as they leisurely explored him.

He was near sobbing when Aramis finally pulled his trousers and small clothes down his thighs, revealing his swelling cock to the cool night air. Aramis placed another wet, biting kiss on the skin just below his belly button, and he jerked hard in Athos' restraining hold.

Athos drew back, his breath mingling with Porthos’ as they panted against each other. He wondered what he had done to deserve this, because Athos' normally reserved face was bared open. In the weak light of the room, his eyes glowed and his normally stoic, handsome face was flushed with passion.

Porthos wanted to capture that expression and hang it like a pendant on his necklace, right alongside St. Jude.

“For God’s sake, quit teasing him,” Athos growled. He nibbled gently at the corner of his mouth before swooping in to claim another wild, thorough kiss.

“Stop spoiling my fun, Athos,” Aramis lifted his shameless, perfect face to scowl but his lips were too slick-soft and his mouth too slackened with pleasure. As he drank in the sight of them at the top of the bed, his tongue flicked out to lick his lips; Porthos gulped to find himself under the same scorching heat he'd only before seen aimed at Athos.

“I like to play with my lovers before I finish them.”

“Then why don’t you-,” Porthos snarled, but his words disintegrated as Aramis chose that moment to slide his mouth down his cock nearly to the root. Athos swallowed Porthos' cry as Aramis worked in greedy, insistent suction.

It seemed only a moment before that sinful warmth vanished.

“Not a quiet one, are you?” Aramis teased, kissing at the crease of his inner thigh. “I want to hear more of it.”

“Then you’ll be the one answering the lieutenant’s questions tomorrow,” Athos interrupted. Then he pulled away, leaving Porthos' mouth free as Aramis descended upon him again.

Porthos gasped and the sound was explosive to his ears. Where the blood rushing through him had drowned out the world, he was now aware of every incriminating creak of the bed as it rocked under him. The slick, wet noise of Aramis' ministrations seemed pervasive against the quiet outside their window, but sent a hot jolt down the length of Porthos. He tried to bite his lip to keep silent, but horrible little grunts kept spilling out of him in time with Aramis' bobbing head.

Athos brushed their temples together so he could whisper into Porthos’ ear. Porthos was so lost.

“He loves to do this,” Athos' voice shook with want. “Tease you until you’re close to death. You’ll learn—I’m lucky if he lets me finish in under an hour. And he’s not shy about it. But you know this, don’t you. You saw him do the same to me. Was it as gorgeous a show for you to watch as this is for me?”

“You’re just as bad as he is,” Porthos growled, but he was so close to coming apart that none of his usual heat was behind it. He could not last much longer.

Aramis drew back until only the tip stayed in his mouth. One hand of his hand's entwined with Porthos’ (he could not have lessened his grip for the life of him), and the other traced along his inner thigh, urging him to spread himself wider. Satisfied with his new position, Aramis winked and traced a pattern down his cock before taking him deep again. The sight of his lips stretched wide almost finished Porthos off right then.

Athos groaned, an agreement if Porthos ever heard one. He had pressed himself tightly against Porthos' side, and the scruff of his beard scratched pleasantly against his neck.

“I suppose I am as bad as he is,” Athos admitted, and though he spoke clearly, Porthos could see cracks had broken open that stoic facade. His eyes had only a thin ring of blue visible, and his loose shirt and trousers were rumpled in wanton disarray. Faint tremors ran through him as he watched, and Porthos was overcome with a sudden, dire need to pin Athos under him and pleasure him until he was a shaking, frenzied mess.

“But you can’t blame me, what with having to put up with him for so long on my own.” He leaned in again, placing a gentle, almost nonexistent kiss just below Porthos' ear. “Care to help me out with him?”

Why had he thought that Aramis would be the one with a mouth that ran wild in bed? Athos—intense and challenging Athos, provokingly stubborn Athos—was clearly so much worse. He doubted he could survive either of them now.

Porthos came like that, torn between them with no escape. He nudged Aramis in warning, but all the other did was nudge his thigh right back before slipping a clever hand lower to fondle his sack. He may not believe in heathen gods, but Aramis was surely a deity of lust and pleasure. He swallowed down everything Porthos gave him and continued to suckle intimately at his softened member until it became too much, and Porthos reluctantly pushed him away. Easing off his over-sensitive cock, Aramis dropped gentler, tender kisses in a trail up Porthos’ thigh, hip, belly, chest, and throat.

Once he neared Athos, Aramis finally untwined his hand from Porthos' and settled it over Athos' own, which had twisted tightly in the collar of Porthos' shirt. Aramis rose over them, and Porthos could see in his face the same raging desire he felt: to take Athos apart and put him back together wet and satiated and whole.

Aramis fell on Athos with a deep, sloppy kiss, and Athos shook off both their hands to reach out and fist Aramis' hair, dragging him in to kiss harder. Porthos, shaking and breathless, watched them with no small amount of pleasure. Aramis remained pressed against him from the waist down, and Athos still had his arm tucked around Porthos' shoulder. His body was pressed along his side, and Porthos could feel his aching need against his hip as well as a matching one against his stomach. Both were hot and heavy, and Porthos headily wondered if he could fit both in his hand.

His head swam in arousal even as his exhausted body lay pinned. He lifted one hand to grab at the swell of Aramis' ass and pulled him down, rocking his hips for him until he caught on. Aramis gave a shocked cry, breaking from Athos, as he understood the invitation and began to undulate atop him, hips rolling in swelling, crashing circles.

Athos gaped at him, lips swollen and lonely without Aramis to cover them, so Porthos swooped in to give his own teasing kiss. He tongued at the inside of his mouth mercilessly, and when he pulled away, he gave Athos a wide smile.

Then he shifted, and with a great lurch of his shoulder he jerked Athos up and neatly wrapped his arm around him, pulling him flush and hard to lie atop Porthos' side. Aramis nearly fell back at the sudden motion, but Porthos grabbed him too and dragged him back to his chest.

Aramis was panting now, his chest heaving through his ridiculous open shirt. His erection pressed painfully against the front of his trousers, the legs of which had bunched up nearly to his knees. Porthos could feel one bare, fuzzy calf tangled between his and Athos'. Lord, but he was fond and aroused by this man. Aramis looked like a debauched dream, and he was staring at Porthos in slack-jaw amazement.

Smugly, Porthos turned to Athos, only to run face first into a palpable wall of pure, predatory desire as Athos met his gaze.

Porthos smiled toothily back at him.

"This count as me givin' you a helpin' hand with him?"

The growl that rumbled out of Athos was ferocious and inhuman as he yanked Aramis across Porthos' chest. Aramis' mouth was already open and willing when Athos plunged forward to meet him. They writhed against each other, lying atop Porthos' chest, and Porthos watched in amazement as Aramis wantonly tried to lick the fight out of Athos. Even though his hips kept up their rhythmic, needy thrusts against Porthos' hip, Aramis seemed to have some impassioned stamina that only urged him to press forward, deeper, into Athos' mouth and his shirt, and had him diving into his pants. Athos clutched tightly at Aramis' forearm when he pulled Athos' member free and began to stroke.

Porthos cursed and muttered his encouragements to both of them.

Later, Porthos would tell Athos that yes, it was just as gorgeous watching from the other side. He had barely held himself together the first time he had watched from across a room, long before he felt he knew them.

Up close was devastating. If he had not already come, that sight would have finished him. It was like watching a rushing river meet a stone wall. Aramis threw everything he had at Athos, who countered with a slow, steady push back to slow Aramis down. They moved with an ease of long familiarity, and the ebb and flow of their movements was beautiful to watch. Aramis was not lying about his skill; where he had explored Porthos in torturous detail, he manhandled Athos with unerring confidence. It did not take long for Athos’ spine to stiffen and for Aramis to start cursing softly in Spanish, but Porthos could see they were not quite there yet.

Athos had asked for his help, had he not?

Leaning up, Porthos cupped Athos on the side of his face, thumb at the apple of his cheek and fingers in his hair. He nipped at his earlobe and, ignoring the bright red flushing it brought to his cheeks, Porthos whispered just what he thought of their show. Filthy nothings, mere echoes to his long-past dreams, but the heat curled through his own chest all the same, and it left Athos bucking at the hips.

With a choked sound he came across Aramis’ hand, collapsing heavily against Porthos. He let out a pitiful whine when he slipped off his chest, but he did not fight when Aramis eased him down to lie curled at Porthos' side.

Aramis leaned forward to press a kiss to Athos' forehead. His flushed body stretched in a long line against Porthos' to do so.

“I hope you weren’t planning on leaving me like this,” Aramis teased, and as he sat up, he straddled Porthos and wriggled. Porthos snorted, and Aramis cracked a wide smile, aching with need and a glow of sweat flushed against his neck.

Porthos dragged him forward. With Athos off his chest, he was free to lock his arms around Aramis, as good and tight as when he'd pinned him from behind in the alley. Having seen him with Athos, he had a feeling Aramis enjoyed a bit of the rough touch. Biting at his mouth, Porthos took him in hand, not giving him an inch of room to wriggle. Aramis was undone within moments, panting hard and needy against his mouth and his hands scrambling along his chest and hips. Porthos plundered his mouth with a deep kiss, and took pleasure in the feeling of Aramis shuddering to completion against him.

Aramis slumped in Porthos' arms. It was a struggle for Porthos to lessen his hold when fit so snugly against him. He ran his hands down his back, smoothing his palms into the curve of his spine where his shirt had rucked up. He wanted to explore every part of this man, but Porthos was rather pinned by their current position. As the rush of his pleasure drained away, he could feel the scratch of fabric catching against the raw scars of his back.

And he did not want those memories to mar this evening.

Porthos sat up—this time when he moved Athos clung to them both and Aramis gave an surprised, strained huff. He shot Porthos a look of displeasure as Porthos easily untangled himself from Athos and lifted Aramis up by his hips. He gently rolled over, maneuvering Aramis to lie on his side against the wall and the misplaced pillow.

Aramis snugly settled down in his new spot, and Porthos gave a sigh of relief as he was able to roll himself onto his stomach. Too much activity for one night. But so very worth it.

He heard Athos shift beside him, the clunk of a candle holder, and a soft huff of breath, before the room around him finally settled into darkness. He felt Aramis curl up beside him, and on his right Athos returned to warm his other half and throw an arm across his waist. Aramis covered Athos’ outstretched hand with his own, pinning both at Porthos' hip.

“That was…” Porthos trailed off. Tucked between the two of them, all he could think was that he had never quite felt like this before.

“Hmm, sleep now,” Aramis suggested, letting his entwined fingers trail lightly up and down Porthos’ skin. The touch brought goosebumps to his arms, but felt divine. He thought he heard Athos mutter something, some contented grunt, but sleep was calling.

He was out like the snuffed candle before he could hear Aramis' reply.

They were both still at his side come dawn, and that scared him as much as it thrilled him. Waking up in a tangle of limbs and warm skin, he had to pinch himself to confirm it was not a dream. Then the fear set in, an anxious energy that jostled him awake and sent his mind racing: what change would this bring to their arrangement? What if they only meant to use him, before returning to their own easy partnership? What if this was but one liaison in a sea of many? What if they tired of him?

What if Porthos, in his unsavory history and roughened character... what if he hurt them?

He couldn't live with it.

Those concerns came to a head the moment Aramis woke beside him. Porthos must be easier to read than he thought, because Aramis raised his blurry head to look at his face, and began smothering him in kisses.

“Stop thinking so much,” Aramis slyly crawled his fingers up Porthos' chest and neck and finally up to cradle his cheeks. “It’s early, and I get enough moodiness from Athos on a good day.”

Beside them, Athos grumbled loudly against Porthos' shoulder. He shifted to curl his arms further around them both before drifting off again with a satisfied snort.

Porthos dropped a kiss onto his unruly hair to appease him.

“See?” Aramis muttered as he dropped one last kiss onto Porthos’ temple and started to crawl towards the bottom of the bed. “You fit right in. Athos usually hates anything that makes him wake up in the morning.”

Before walking out the door to see to their morning duties, Athos and Aramis each bestowed a kiss on him: Aramis’ strong and biting, Athos’ plaintively sweet and undeniable. Porthos was left standing at the door, watching their hats disappear down the staircase and falling so deep for both of them that he did not think he could see a world without them anymore. And if he could, he had no desire to try.

That night when they returned from patrol, he ushered Aramis and Athos onto the bed and took Athos’ chair for himself. Aramis’ grin was devious as his hands inched towards Athos, but Porthos reached over to smack his knee. Aramis held his hands up, as if promising to behave himself.

“Tell me about what you do,” Porthos ordered. “Tell me everything.”

And then he listened. He asked questions. And he listened some more, both for what they were and were not saying. He asked about the king, their patrols, and their training.

The next morning, he watched them. He observed them through their day instead of searching out possible escape paths. He followed along behind them as they ran through their morning drills and rounds. He spied, quite easily, on other Musketeers who received dispatches and orders.

He learned everything he could about this position he had thought of as nothing more than a set of chains, and he found himself intrigued.

The Musketeers, as he saw, did not function like soldiers. They were given assignments that ranged from mundane guard work to possible lunacy, assignments no one in their right mind would think they could handle. Athos and Aramis, in particular, worked with an independence that startled him, and were given an allowance to have their own judgment that shook Porthos to his core. Everything he ever understood about military life meant regimented command and unquestioning orders. But with Aramis disagreed with something, he let the lieutenant know in loud detail. Athos more than once superseded his orders with his own judgment.

His friends, his Musketeers, they fought for what they believed to be right.

The captain had not been mistaken when he called them his best.

Porthos felt the world changing under his feet with each passing day, both disconcerting and awe-inspiring.

Tréville returned two weeks later. He looked upon the three of them—Aramis on the left, Athos on the right, and Porthos standing fiercely determined between them—and the captain's eyes lit up like the devil's himself.

Porthos knew his fate was sealed.

*

Porthos hadn't realized how much he missed Paris until he roamed her streets once more. There was nothing quite like her winding roads and towering, curving buildings, each built on the ruins of their ancestors. Once he had known her every nook and cranny; every road, back alley, and hidden side-street memorized.

His uniform jacket fell stiffly around his shoulders, and it made too much noise when he moved. The newness would fade with time, he knew, but it would take longer than that to get used to the new weight buckled on his shoulder. The fleur-de-lis stood out in sharp relief even in the pre-dawn light. The strap had kept him warm against the winter winds, and warmed him still when he removed it to sleep at night.

He was damn proud of it, is what he was sayin'.

The streets were barely lit, one dim alley fading into another, and he thanked his keen pirate's eyes for their discernment in navigating where his memories failed to guide him.

The old fountain no longer gave water to the district, but it still stood tall and proud in the middle of the rundown square at the center of the Cour des Miracles. The district once possessed another name, but as the Cour grew it had chipped away the remnants of the place it once was. Now it ruled the distract, as well as any who wandered into it. The fountain acted as its own palace for the rabble and offered more than the Louvre ever did.

Porthos remembered drinking from the fountain when the rains filled it, and taking its waters to bathe in when he could. He had hidden behind it when it was Charon’s turn at hide-me-find-me.

He sat on the lip of the fountain, running his fingers over the smoothed stone. It was chipped and cracked, but it was still there.

He did not wait long, and he could not help but smile when she came, appearing out of nowhere to settle down beside him.

Flea had grown up, just as he had. But he still recognized her—wild, blonde hair and sharp features, her too clever eyes and cocky grin. Flea had always been able to smile in the face of overwhelming odds. He remembered envying her for it once upon a time.

Her clothes now were dark for concealment. They bore their share of holes and snags, but they were clean and well-cared for.

“Hey you,” Porthos muttered, heart feeling lighter for seeing her. She still meant so much to him, even after all these years; she always would. He had not hidden when he stepped into the district, hoping word of his arrival would reach her. And that she would come.

“Hey, yourself. Been a while.”

There was a mild reproach in her voice, but not much. She looked as grateful as he did to be sitting on cold stone in the chilly early morning.

“Yeah…sorry ‘bout that.” Porthos should not have taken so long to reach back out.

Flea shrugged off his apology.

“It in’t like I let ya know that I was willin' to see ya,” she muttered. “Not the best at sayin’ sorry, either.”

“I heard ya ain’t been telling people 'bout me,” he said, falling back into the heavier street slang of his childhood. He had shaken most of it off after years at sea, but it was thicker this close to home. To his old home.

“We wouldn’ta let ya hang,” she looked down at her feet. “Me or Charon.”

“He here?” Porthos did not bother looking around. He wouldn't stand a chance at finding him in a crowd, especially if he didn't want to be found. But Flea’s rueful expression spoke volumes.

“He's as stubborn as he always was,” she kicked at the ground with a scowl on her face. “Ain’t nothin’ changin' that. Don't mean he don’t still love ya. We both do. What’cha do don’t matter to us, so long as you’re safe.”

They had shouted differently in their fight a decade ago, but Porthos had not spoken well either. They had been so young then, so willing to hurt each other to mask their own pain and fear.

Smiling slightly, he nudged her shoulder with his.

“Thanks,” he muttered. “Didn’t know ya’ll were spreadin’ word to keep hush. I would’a stopped by sooner if I had. Ya’ll kept me safe.”

“Not safe enough."

Porthos felt his lips twist, the sour tint of shame swelling as he rubbed at his wrists. He had hoped word had not reached them about his time in prison, or his punishment before Aramis and Athos found him, but it was a vain hope. The Cour des Miracles had eyes everywhere in France.

“Safe enough,” he insisted, and Flea graced him with a small smile.

Then she poked at his plated shoulder, right in the middle of the patterned fleur-de-lis.

“So you ain’t a pirate any more?”

“I ain’t."

“Ya gonna come back?” her eyes were guarded, but Porthos could see a light of hope buried in there. “We miss ya, even if Charon won’t say it.”

Porthos had been a Musketeer for three months, officially. In that time, he had helped track a bandit who killed his victims after robbing them blind. The bandit had not been quick nor kind in his murders. Porthos had caught the man, and watched him hang at the gallows last week. He had also run down a group of swindlers cheating folks out of their life savings. He had investigated a conspiracy to dethrone the king. He even found a pair of slavers that he'd been tracking since his early years as a pirate.

He got to see that justice was served to each and every one of them, and he did not think he could go back to what he was before.

He said as much. Flea didn't hide her disappointment, but her eyes were still kind.

“Ya happy?”

Porthos did not need to think about it.

“Yeah.”

“All that matters then,” she said, and her smile was her widest yet.

He stayed with her as the sun began to rise overhead. They chatted a bit more, about nothing much. Porthos did not quite have the courage to tell her about Athos and Aramis, but he did speak about his new life. Flea, in turn, offered up a few stories of her own adventures over the years, and Porthos was glad to hear that she and Charon had remained steadfast in his absence.

“Ya boy sounds like he got himself right,” he told her once she finished her tales. He was happy that Charon was settling down—he had been antsy, ambitious, and too damn smart for his own good in their younger years. Porthos had always worried it would get him into trouble.

“Yeah well, he’s doin’ better,” she sounded pleased even through her forced nonchalance. "Speakin’ of, you tell ya boys we’re comin’ for 'em if they don’t keep ya safe."

Porthos grinned and struggled to keep down his rising flush. He should have known. The Cour des Miracles always kept eyes on their own, and Porthos was thrilled to find that reassurance returned after a decade of thinking he had lost it over a handful of stupid, hurtful words.

Porthos sidestepped commenting on his Musketeers by bringing up his tale of how he had met the king. Though Flea seemed more interested in his description of the queen. She made him promise to find out more about her, but Porthos drew the line at describing her jewels. There was enough temptation in the world for Flea to battle without him adding fuel to the fire.

The crowd was thick with the morning rush when he and Flea finally parted. Working his way back towards Paris proper, he almost missed another person bumping into him. Porthos caught a flash of dark, serious eyes and a familiar, prideful smirk. A strong hand wrapped around his wrist with reassuring strength, and Charon vanished back into the crowd.

It was as close to a greeting, and an apology, as Porthos was going to get.

He was not surprised to find his purse gone once he reached the edge of the crowd. He was sure what little coinage left in it would be put to good use. Reaching into the lining of his new jacket, he felt for the few sous he kept secreted there, grinning when he found them still on his person. Charon had never gotten the hang of cross-body grabs.

Porthos glanced up towards the sun and figured it was not too far gone in the day. Aramis, never one to rise early if the occasion did not call for it, would still be abed with Athos, who would be exhausted after an all-night posting at the palace. Porthos would stop for some bread and fruit, before he roused them both for the day. Aramis was more willing to get up if food and kisses were involved, and Athos loved slow, lazy mornings with them.

There was no rush. He was not running anymore. He had found somewhere safe, where he belonged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you for beta'ing, readwing. Welcome to pretty not-french boy hell with me
> 
>  
> 
> In my continued insistence at using anachronistic music for this fic, Porthos' song in this chapter is "Boy from the North" by Monica Heldel. Here it here:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ta3FYIaxGAg
> 
>  
> 
> Trigger warnings have changed:  
> Whipping. Not the nice kind.  
> Alcohol involved in the sex scene, but Aramis loves consent and they’re not much past tipsy.  
> Manipulative behavior from people in power

**Author's Note:**

> fun side note: Part of this fic helped me get into grad school! 
> 
> I've been sitting on this prompt for quite a while. Anyone remember the disney 90's movie? 
> 
> Link to original prompt here: http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/774.html?thread=142342#cmt142342


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